To Earn Hermione Jane
by Maevenly
Summary: In the wake of the final battle, Hermione Granger left the Wizarding world. Five days later, Harry and Draco learn they can't live without her. They have 7 years to find her, woo her & each other, settle the past, and make enough changes to Wizarding society so that, once they find her, she'll stay. The clock started ten days ago. They have no clue where to start looking for her.AU
1. Chapter 1

**To Earn Hermione Jane**

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Summary:

In the wake of the final battle against Voldemort, Hermione Granger left the Wizarding world.

Five days later, two men - life-long enemies - realized why they had such a bitter rivalry and that she was one witch they can't - and won't - live without.

Now, Harry and Draco have seven years to:

1. Find her

2. Woo her

3. Woo each other

4. Settle the past

5. Facilitate a future for the three of them within the Wizarding world

If they fail, they'll succumb to the Black Family Curse, a Curse that destroyed Bellatrix and nearly claimed a teen-aged Sirius: sociopathic madness

If they succeed, Harry, Draco and Hermione - together - will have the kind of love, and lives, that'll inspire bards and composors for generations.

The clock started ticking ten days ago... and they have no idea where to start

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Many and grateful thanks to Severus' Malfoy Maiden ( www . fanfiction u / 2042569 / - eliminate the spaces after cutting-and-pasting) for her wonderful beta'ing. Also, her Veela story isn't to be missed! I'm DESPERATELY awaiting an update on that story! All of her stories are a joy to read.

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Chapter 1:

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May 17th, 1998

Rosewood Suite

Dilys Derwent's Home for the Convalescing Wizard

Berwick-upon-Tweed, Scotland

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May 17th, 1998

Rosewood Suite

Dilys Derwent's Home for the Convalescing Wizard

Berwick-upon-Tweed, Scotland

Remus Lupin scrubbed his face with a calloused, scarred hand.

The meeting that Severus insisted on hosting in his recovery suite had degenerated quickly. Harry's latest outburst had brought Draco to his feet, outraged at the younger Gryffindor's snidely spoken words.

Given the inherent history between the two young men, he wasn't surprised.

Two weeks of a grudgingly sustained truce wasn't nearly long enough for those two not to throw the past at each other; especially since the topic of conversation centered around two very specific witches and a genetic hold-over from the Black family tree. It was an inherited trait that directly affected the lives of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. It was a trait that explained a lot of the animosity that fuelled the rivalry existing between the two younger wizards. It was the same trait that fanned the flames of adolescent cruelty that a certain bespectacled Marauder directed at a young Severus Snape. The same trait that created a bond between Sirius Black and James Potter that matched the bond between James and Lily Evans. A trait that, because the circle wasn't closed between the three, left room for those who knew what existed between James, Sirius and Lily to actually believe that Sirius could've indeed betrayed the Potters that fateful night.

"Sit down, Draco." Seated in an old-fashioned high-backed wheelchair with an afghan draped over his lap and legs, Severus locked his nearly black gaze on the tall blond man. The past hour had been a drain on the former headmaster.

Draco cut his godfather a jaded look. The faint sheen of perspiration that dewed Severus's sallow cheeks and forehead made the Malfoy heir retake his seat and swallow a retort that could have very well ended their four-way tete-a-tete.

Severus survived where Voldemort did not. The consummate Slytherin told no one except a very senior Healer at the Convalescent Home, one he bound by a Vow to never repeat his disclosure, the reason why neither Nagini's venom nor extensive blood loss claimed his life. The portrait of Dilys Derwent herself spearheaded his admission to the private hospital and personally crafted and supervised the much-abused wizard's psychological, magical, and physical recovery. Enough people in the Ministry learned enough of the actual truth, many poignant details supplied by the portraits that hung throughout Hogwarts, so that there were no charges pending against a man who'd long since made reparations for a mistake that reverberated throughout the Wizarding world.

Remus woke up with a start, three days after the 'final battle', with a sheet stretched over him and a name tag affixed to a bare toe. His eyes had changed; there was now a ring of amber between the lighter blue of his irises and the darker blue of his pupils. The soundest theory that St. Mungo's put forth was that the self-preservation-survive-at-any-cost component of his lycanthropy induced an extremely deep healing coma. A 'side-effect' was that Remus and his werewolf alter-ego Moony were now much more integrated than ever before. Despite the strong bond he and Tonks shared via their son, there wasn't enough mate-magic left, once Moony deemed that Remus was 'safe' but not 'healed', to save his wife.

Remus knew the truth behind his and Moony's survival. It didn't change the fact that he was still learning how to live without the woman he'd married or that his son would only know his mother through stories and pictures shared by friends and family.

Remus inhaled deeply and slowly relaxed his ribcage. He kept his fingers clasped in his lap; one long leg propped neatly across a bent knee, and drew on his reservoir of patience. He had to bring them all back to the subject at hand and derail the verbal blood-letting. Everything hinged on convincing the two younger men that what he and Severus had been telling them was truly their new reality. He tried a different approach, one steeped in the very personal aspect of the lives of his pack-brothers James Potter and Sirius Orion Black.

"Harry, Draco - look at me." Remus didn't flinch when two very different sets of eyes met his gaze. "You know that James pursued Lily for more than six years despite the fact that she told the man – to his face – that he was an 'reprehensible prat', 'gormless git', and that 'if he were the last wizard on earth', she'd rather let wizarding-kind die out rather than, 'marry him, let alone perpetuate the species'."

Harry nodded bemusedly. "Yeah – Sirius had said as such. When he told me, Ron-"

At the mention of the Weasley boy, Draco freshened his sneer.

Harry continued, pausing long enough to send Malfoy a nasty look, "-and Hermione that story, he sounded a bit proud at the way my mum kept my dad at bay."

"He was," Remus snickered. Lily Evans' creativity at denting James Potter's ego knew no boundaries and was vastly entertaining to listen to. He immediately sobered. The lighter side of this conversation would have to wait. The lull in the hostilities between Draco and Harry meant that now was the best time to lay out the connections between the past and the present and prove to the two younger wizards how and why the events of a hundred-twenty-plus years ago, twenty-plus years ago, and today were interconnected. "Harry – have you ever wondered why –"

"_How_," Severus tolled sardonically.

"Your mum," he shot Severus a censorious glare, "came to be married to your dad? Despite six and a half years of scathing rejection, you know that your dad never once doubted that he and your mum would end up together?"

Draco snorted, the barely audible inarticulate sound saying as much a _Sonorus_-shouted, 'feckin' Gryffindor baseless optimism' ever could.

"Because he loved her." Harry shrugged his shoulders, his automatic answer echoed his sincere belief in what he'd been told since Hagrid first hammered down the front door of Vernon's 'vacation rental'.

"He did, Harry." Severus's deep baritone, lightly touched with raspiness due to the intense regimen of restorative and nourishing potions prescribed by his healers, carried the undercurrent of a nearly twenty year old heartache. "Your father's…_boundless_…conviction did not stem from his faith in his looks or his laid-back view on life or the ability to provide for Lily in way that his wealth and station could afford."

Harry bristled with indignation. "Mum wouldn't've cared about money or titles!"

"No. She wouldn't," Severus agreed.

The past superimposed itself on the present as Remus looked at the two younger men. They were so different from James and Sirius, and yet faced the same problem that nearly undid his pack brothers.

"James and Lily would never have married, never have even been together, if it weren't for…" Severus stalled, momentarily caught up in the trying memories of his turbulent Hogwarts years.

Remus knew what Severus meant to say and spoke for the other man.

"Harry – the differences between James and Lily had nothing to do with blood status, social status or financial status. They shared _fundamental_ differences." Remus leaned forward and told himself he wasn't speaking ill of the dead. "James possessed a natural aptitude for learning but was lackadaisical about his studies. Lily worked hard for her grades and strived to understand everything around her. James was content to live out the life his father Charlus had prepared for him and Lily didn't know what she wanted to be when she grew up. James equated pranking with soft-peddled justice. Lily equated pranking with bullying. Lily preferred the Tube over a broom and James was never without a broomstick between his legs."

Draco's poorly smothered snigger echoed Severus's wryly quirked eyebrow. The older Slytherin didn't have to say, 'in more ways than one', in order for the words to be heard. Thankfully, Harry was either too caught up in the story of his parent's road to matrimony or harbored enough maturity not to comment.

"Then how'd they get together?"

"The same way your parents did, Draco." Remus turned his gaze on the Malfoy boy. "Hence the reason why you were named in the Black family tradition and your father's family's penchant for Roman names is represented by your middle name."

Severus reached for a glass of water and took a pull from his glass. Swallowing his mouthful, he kept the glass in his hand and looked at each young man in turn. "Draco – your maternal grandmother was a Rosier. Your mother is a Black."

"That's right." Draco was unfazed by his godfather revealing a bit of his family's history. He'd been raised to honor his roots, including all who had contributed to his magical and physical inheritance.

"And Potter, your maternal grandmother was a Black. Your great-grandmother is listed as a Bulstrode."

Remus wasn't surprised when Harry merely shrugged at Severus' pronouncement. Harry had spent quite a bit of time at Grimmauld Place and had ample opportunity to consider the Black Family Tree. "Most of the older families are connected somewhere along the line."

"Except the fact that Violeta Bulstrode was Cygnus Black's _second_ wife. Violeta was _not_ the mother of Cassiopeia, Pollux or Dorea Black; Bulstrode was barren, a price she paid for surviving Dragon Pox. Despite the fact that she'd never be a mother, it was a condition set in the betrothal contract that she be listed officially as such. Cygnus' _first_ wife, who died in a carriage accident, was Alcmene Coderre."

Draco surged to his feet. He ignored the three sets of eyes that tracked him as he marched silently to the large window that dominated one side of the lounge. Severus' third floor recovery suite overlooked the modestly-sized East Lawn and the koi pond. The pastoral setting did nothing to ease the rigidness in the blond's posture. Remus's werewolf/lupine senses could smell the precise moment when Draco's mind realized what he and Severus had been trying to make them understand since this meeting first began.

Severus continued as if Draco were still seated calmly in front of him. "Alcmene Coderre had three brothers and a sister: Callista. Callista was Apolline Delacour's mother. Both women, Callista and Alcmene, are and were, full-heritage Veela." The Potions Master forced himself to keep his tone neutral and lecture-like. "It is from Alcmene that Blacks draw their signature grey eyes. If a Black has grey eyes, then Veela traits will manifest in that witch or wizard."

"But my eyes are green." Harry looked at Draco's back, Severus, and then Remus, unable to picture himself without one of his mother's signature features. "I've seen pictures of my dad, Remus. He had hazel eyes."

"When you were born, Harry, once your newborn blue color went away, your eyes matched Sirus'." If the moment wasn't so somber, he would've smiled. As it was, he didn't indulge too much when the antics of a baby Harry came to mind. "The scar on your forehead was the result of Voldemort's Killing Curse nullified by your mum's sacrifice. Lily's protection resulted in a transfer: her eyes to you." Remus felt himself and Moony become infused with gentle sincerity. "Eyes are the windows to the soul, Harry. Without a doubt, Harry, you were at the center of Lily's soul."

Severus and Harry swallowed thickly. Even Draco stayed quiet and respectful as Remus spoke of Lily Potter nee Evans.

"As for your dad and his eyes… That's another story."

Remus doubted even Severus had heard of this one. Remus set both feet on the floor and rested his forearms on his knees. He tangled his fingers and leaned forward, the slightly shaggy fringe of hair over his eyebrows tilted to the side as he resisted the urge to tell the story with his eyes shut.

"You know that Sirius ran away from home? That the Potters all but formally adopted Sirius when he came to live with them?" His pack-brother had suffered so much as a youth and as a younger man and he was about to dredge all of it up again without the wizard-of-the-moment present to speak for himself. "James went with Sirius to inform Orion and Walburga of Sirius' change of address. Needless to say, it was a volatile situation from the start. You can only imagine how quickly it spun out of control."

Everyone one of the wizards seated around him knew first-hand about family strife.

"Orion pulled out his wand and fired a spell at Sirius when Sirius had his head turned. James threw himself at Sirius, but wasn't fast enough to dodge it completely. It skimmed his outer arm when he tackled Sirius. Pinned underneath James, Sirius wandlessly _finite'd_ the spell that struck James. From the way the two of them described it to me and Peter when they got back to school, that's when things between the four of them, Orion, Walburga, James and Sirius, really became ugly. Only Regulus was able to run enough interference for James and Sirius to get out of the house without incurring any further spell damage."

"But you still haven't said-"

"Let the man finish, Potter," Severus quietly commanded.

"When they got back to James' house, that's when they discovered that James' eyes were no longer Black grey, but Potter hazel. When they described what happened to Charlus and Dorea, Dorea immediately knew what had occurred. Orion, as Head of Family, had fired a filial disowning spell. But between the fact that it was just a glancing blow, Sirius' quick and powerful counter-casting, and the fact that Orion wasn't a particularly strong wizard in the first place, the spell only cost James the color of his eyes. The rest of his Black 'inheritance' remained unaffected." Remus felt the loss of his dear brothers every day. But Harry needed him. For Harry, he'd see this through to the end. "It's because of Orion and Walburga that James and Lily chose non-wizarding names for you, Harry, even though you had Alcmene's grey eyes and carried the blood of two prominent and historic Houses."

The worst morning of his life, when he'd been told he'd nearly shredded sixteen year old Severus Snape, had everything to do with why Remus struggled with what he had to say next. "Draco. Harry. You've both heard of the Black Family Curse?"

Harry shook his head. He hadn't.

"Yeah." Draco had. He didn't turn away from the window, though, and spoke directly into the glass pane. "Mother told me that her sister Bellatrix succumbed to it. And that, for a time, the family feared that Sirius would as well."

A quick glance at Severus told him that the convalescing wizard couldn't speak at the moment.

"He nearly did, Draco. I was there. I saw it all," Remus admitted. The memories of which, with more than twenty years between then and now, echoed with residual feelings of helplessness and fear.

"Then why didn't he?" Harry asked, curious at learning more about his godfather. "What saved Sirius from the Curse?"

"You really need to ask, Potter?" Draco scoffed.

"Then why don't you tell me, if you've figured it out," Harry dared his former classmate.

"You've seen the Black Family Tree – right, Potter?

"Yeah, Malfoy. I have."

"How old is the Black family, Potter?"

"Ancient. Hence the designation: Noble and Ancient House of Black."

"Didn't know you knew that word." Draco twisted his head so that he could smirk at Harry from over his shoulder. "Granger teach it to you or did she fill your pillow with pages from a thesaurus?"

"Neither – Word of the Month Club; she got me life-time subscription," Harry snipped nastily, his lip curled with derision at the back-handed compliment the other boy paid his best friend. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, exuding exaggerated pride. "Read every issue, cover to cover."

"That's enough, Harry." Remus quietly rebuked. His disappointment silenced the younger wizard.

He waited for the faint pink of shame to bloom on Harry's cheeks before he continued.

"Black family magic is akin to the Sword of Gryffindor." Remus had always found that this particular aspect of James' and Sirius' magical-makeup, this Dark Magic that ran within the Black Family magical signature, fascinated his inner scholar as well as appealed to the Dark component of his lycanthropy. "Whereas the sword absorbs that which'll make it stronger, Black family magic _seeks_ _out_ what'll make it stronger. The Black family is tied to every major wizarding family in Britain for a reason. It's nearly sentient, borderline predatory, in a way. Well, all magic is sentient, to some extent or another. But _Black_ family magic… seems especially so. This is probably why the both of you are paired with…" He cut short his impromptu lecture and refocused on the matter at-hand. "Black Family magic wants her, just like it wanted Lily, so it made sure that between the two of you, one or both of you would-"

"Past before the present, Lupin. Unless we want history to repeat itself," Severus interrupted acerbically.

"Right." Remus shook his head to break away from the tangent he'd started. There'd be a time and place to explore that line of thought later.

"A contributing factor in Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black slide into functioning insanity stemmed from the fact that she married a man incompatible with her Black legacy. Hence the reason why she lost her mind and why she never conceived a child with her husband or any of her…paramours, despite all the medical diagnostics that proved that she was, indeed, capable."

They all shivered with revulsion at the mental image Severus' lecture invoked.

"Sirius nearly suffered the same plight. His magic identified Lily Evans and James Potter as soon as he met them as the two people he was meant to be with. His loyalty, his _brotherhood_, to James collided with the call of his Black blood, which created years of frustration, confusion, as well as internal and external conflict for him." Remus couldn't help but send Severus a too-little-too-late apologetic look at the phrase, 'external conflict'. "James was quick to recognize Lily, which was probably why it took him so long to realize what it was that actually existed between him and Sirius; he wasn't looking for it. Once he _did_ realize what existed between him and Sirius, James," he tried to find the best way to avoid the phrase, 'they shagged themselves raw', "didn't so much as blink. Their deeper relationship only enhanced their – and by extension, our – brotherhood."

Remus resented over-simplifying the complexity of James' and Sirius' transition from being brothers to being Bonded, but right now wasn't the appropriate time or place to share such intimate details.

"Because of his Black heritage, James never took Lily's constant rejections to heart because he knew that, in the end, no matter what, Lily Evans would be his because –"

"Because she was his mate," Harry finished Remus' sentence. He looked at Remus with his heart in his eyes, a heart stripped of the certainty he held that his parents overcame their differences through the power of a love that was meant to be.

"Harry – no." Remus was quick to attempt to repair the damage done to Harry's perception of his parent's relationship. "Lily _loved_ you. She _loved_ James. She even loved Sirius, in a way, even though she never took his Mark, his name, or accepted what he wanted to offer her."

Remus slid his eyes to the left, and connected with Severus. He radiated empathy for the black-haired man.

"She loved you too, Severus. She did. Which was why Sirius was so brutal towards you; you had what he wanted, what he needed. But once James claimed her…" It was one thing to be denied the woman one loved by actions and deeds. It was ten-times worse to know that, even if forgiveness had been made available, Black family magic, to which Severus had no connection or recourse, would've torn them asunder.

Severus coolly waved his hand as a means to convey 'the past was the past', which was a lie. What happened twenty years ago was clearly an open wound for the man.

"James bonded with Lily on New Years' Eve of our seventh year. James bonded with Sirius the year before. Which was why James went ballistic when Sirius lured Severus to the Shrieking Shack that night. James blamed _himself_ for Sirius' inability to recognize right from wrong. I don't believe Sirius ever understood why he felt so threatened by Severus until after he left Hogwarts; during school, Sirius just acted on it without thought to cause or consequence. It was the connection Sirius felt to Lily, through James, that contributed to the abuse that Sirius, with the rest of us in-tow, rained down on Severus."

His own culpability amplified the shame and remorse Remus felt about how he and his friends treated their fellow classmate and Order member. Remus looked at Harry and Draco, and obliquely, Severus.

"Lily truly did love Severus, but she wasn't sure about where those feelings came from or what to do with them. Unlike Hermione," Remus mentioned the girl as a way for Harry to make the proper parallels between the two women, "Lily was young for her age and she came from a very sheltered childhood. She never could reconcile her Muggle upbringing with the…allowances… that Wizarding relationships afford. The affinity that Severus and Lily shared was…" Remus remembered how it felt to just look at a younger Severus and Lily as they walked together across Hogwarts' grounds. "Anyone with the gift to see auras could see it. Hell, even without that gift, one could feel it. It was only after James claimed Sirius that the bullying with which we victimized Severus-"

"I am no one's victim, Lupin."

Remus agreed with Severus one-hundred percent. "You are, by far, one of the most amazing, worthy, men I have ever had the privilege to know." Remus knew that all three of the other wizards could sense the depth of his sincerity. "Thank you for allowing me to apologize to you, Severus."

"Continue with your story, Lupin," Severus muttered uncomfortably, especially since it was apparent that the other two men in the room shared the same opinion of the former spy.

"Once bonded to James, Sirius' magic and his Black blood settled enough to bring a degree of stability to his psyche."

"'Stability' is a pretty word for 'curbing the man's homicidal tendencies', Lupin," Draco snarked.

Remus caught a whiff of distress coming from James' son. Harry was reaching his emotional threshold. With the groundwork laid, he and Severus moved on to the gist of why the three of them had traveled to eastern Scotland and had ensconced themselves in Severus' recovery suite.

"Harry, I don't want you to think about your answer." Remus leaned back into his chair and made his tone as encouraging as possible. "Just say the first name that comes to mind."

"Okay." Harry blinked at the sudden shift in the conversation.

"With whom is your magic most compatible?"

The young man didn't blink as he unfalteringly spoke one name. "Hermione."

"Why?" Remus asked, more so that Harry, by extension Draco, could hear his own answer rather than for his or Severus' edification.

"I was able to use her wand as if it was my own. Also, when I'm around her, it feels as if my magic works better and more completely. And…and…"

Remus could all but taste Harry's self-consciousness as he struggled to hold back something he thought could be held over his head by the two Slytherins. He quickly assured Harry that wasn't going to be the case. "For once, Harry, your suspicions won't come to pass."

"I feel like I always want to touch her – nothing…perverted or anything. I mean – I do. Of course I do. Who wouldn't?" Testosterone-infused hormones were a blessing and a curse, whether one be seventeen or thirty-eight. Glancing at the expressions on the older wizard's faces, Harry didn't apologize for his allusions but he was quick to add, "Even if it's just… Hold her hand. Sit next to her and have our hips touch. Dance terribly to an even more terrible song on the Wireless." He spoke of memories, moments they'd shared over the years. "She used to wrap her arm around my waist and rest her head on my shoulder and when she did, it was like… It was like she just…_fit_. You know what I mean? Yeah, sure, I kissed Ginny. But it wasn't the same – not even close." His slashing movement he made when he mentioned the youngest Weasley quickly became one of professed innocence as he switched to talking about another witch. "Not that I've kissed Hermione – because I haven't." His hands lowered and he rubbed his palms against his thighs, uncomfortable speaking so plainly about emotions he'd never learned to properly name. "What I mean… Christ to Merlin, I don't even know how to say this!" Harry's gaze fixed itself on Malfoy's back and then cut away to look at nothing but a vacant corner of the lounge. "She's the only who could…touch me, come close to me…when I was upset, when I really needed someone. Like when I first 'found out' that Sirius 'killed' my mum and dad. Or when we visited my parents' grave last Christmas. Or when we were running from Moony through the Forbidden Forest. Or a hundred different instances in-between." Harry didn't look up from the spot of carpet between the toes of his trainers as he confessed, "Now that she's not with me, I feel like I'm half the man, half the wizard, that I want to – and should – be."

Remus didn't interrupt Harry. There'd be time, later on, to help Harry help himself heal from everything that he'd been subjected to over the course of the past seventeen – nearly eighteen years – but not right now. It was vital that they continue with the matter at hand.

"Whom did you almost kill in your sixth year?"

"Malfoy." Shame tinged Harry's cheeks as he remembered the horror he felt when he hurled that hex at the blond haired man.

"Why?"

That question had Harry snapping his head up and leveling his gaze at all three of them in turn. "Because he tried to _Crucio_ me."

"Why did he try to _Crucio_ you?"

"Because I didn't back-down when he mouthed off to me."

"Why didn't you back-down, Harry?"

"Because he's Malfoy. We've always hated each other." Harry sat back in his chair and continued with his list. "And he's always hated Ron and has always picked on Hermione."

"And why do you think that was?"

"Hermione? That's obvious. Hated Ron? No idea-"

"Slytherins are never 'obvious', Potter." Draco tucked his hands into his pockets. "And, as far as the Ginger By-Product is concerned? If you need me to point it out to you, then you need more than spectacles to correct your near-sightedness," Draco sneered condescendingly.

"If you've got something to say about Ron-"

"I've got _plenty_ to say about _all_ the Weasleys, Potter."

"Then say it, Malfoy - lay it out there." Harry spread his hands wide as if to have Draco's reasons appear on a billboard for the entire world to read before crossing his arms against his chest. "I know I want to hear it."

Remus ended by-play between the two younger wizards. "Harry – focus! Answer the question."

Remus hated playing Twenty Questions with Harry over something so important, but Harry had inherited his stubbornness from Lily, and if Harry didn't come to these conclusions on his own, he'd never truly accept them as the truths that they were.

"Do you see what we've been trying to explain to you, Potter?" Severus asked pointedly.

Remus felt like a barrister leading a witness. More so, he knew just how intelligent Harry was. Just as he knew that Harry's stunted emotional development and penchant for masking his intelligence was another one of Dumbledore's crimes. "Harry. The truth. Whatever is said in this room will stay in this room." He prayed that Harry's inability to connect with his true feelings was the reason why the younger man was more like his father than just physically and athletically. "Harry, who's your biggest rival?"

"Malfoy."

Remus nodded at the absolute conviction Harry projected.

"Why?"

"Because he just is."

"Articulate, isn't he?" Draco intoned disparagingly. "Looks like you could use a couple hours with past issues of your Word of the Month magazine."

"Who do you have the most in common with, Potter?" Severus asked, distracting Lily's son from Draco's sharp tongue.

"The truth, Harry," Remus reminded the young man.

Remus held his breath as he watched Harry sift through nearly eighteen years of complicated memories.

"Not who you 'like', Harry," Remus quantified Severus' question. "With whom do you have the most in common? Can you honestly say that Ronald Weasley is your magical equal? Neville Longbottom? Aside from your birthdays and House affiliation, are there any other similarities?"

Remus knew the answers to his questions, as did Severus, but Harry needed to say the words out loud. The next question would cut James' son to the quick, but it had to be answered. The two young men shared more similarities than Quidditch skills, an aptitude for dueling, and a penchant for resenting authority figures who hadn't earned – or lost – their trust or respect.

"Harry, think before you answer me: who never had a chance to be the man he was supposed to be and instead was made to live the life others forced upon him? Aside from Severus and Sirius and yourself, who was manipulated just as dispassionately by Voldemort as he was by Dumbledore?"

Harry stood up so fast that his chair skidded to the side. "How can you stand there, Malfoy, and be so calm?" He breathed heavily and then ran a hand through his hair. He swung an arm at the two seated men. "You know what they're saying, right? That you and me – we're part _Veela_! Veela enough that we have a _mate_. And, I only say this because it's you and me in this room and not anyone else, whatever mate we have is someone we're both connected to!" He started to pace, his words matching his footfalls. "All my life, other people have made my choices for me. From what Remus just said, they did that to you, too." He carded all ten of his fingers through his hair, his expression plaintive and distraught. "And now, just when I felt like I was in control of my life – for the very first time _ever_ – some genetic throw-back is now dictating who I'm – we're – going to spend the rest of our lives with." He glared at his former classmate. "Doesn't that bother you!?"

Draco stopped leaning against the casing of the window and crossed the room to where Harry stood.

"Of course I know what they've been saying, Potter! I grew up in this world. And, it's not as if I was ever going to have a say as to who'd I'd wed as it was. Being Veela? No. Suspicion? Yes. The question that begs an answer is how they," Draco pointed first to the werewolf and then to his godfather, "know what we are and who we have to spend the rest of our lives with."

Severus nodded in approval at Draco's acuity. He indulged his godson's need-to-know.

"Lupin told me that she could use Bellatrix's wand with considerable success. Then he told me that you, Potter, were able to use Draco's wand as if it were your own. Have you deduced a pattern yet?" Severus reined in his momentary lapse into snarkiness and traded it for forced patience. "Given your respective family legacies," in this he included Draco, "and the other mitigating factors, there was only one possible conclusion."

Remus held his breath as he waited for Draco to say something about defining the word 'mitigating' for Harry's benefit. Thankfully, Draco was too caught up in Severus' latest statement to make that particular comment.

"Malfoy's wand came to me when I disarmed him; the whole 'wand chooses the wizard' bit and all that. Ollivander said so," Harry sputtered as he groped for some other possible outcome other than the one Remus and Severus presented.

"Just because you 'win' a wand, Harry, doesn't mean you'll be able to wield it," Remus chided gently. "Filius has a wand from every wizard he's defeated, whether it was during a sparring competition or otherwise. Doesn't mean that Flitwick has a store of wands he can use at a whim." More firmly, he added, "And the wand 'did' choose the wizard, Harry, in a way. It chose you because your magic is intrinsically compatible-"

"'Compatible' – understatement of the day, Lupin," Severus snorted smoothly.

"But you hate her!" Harry heard what was being said, but clearly didn't accept a single syllable as reality.

"Do I?" Draco arched his eyebrow, a perfect reflection of his godfather's influence on his life.

"You do! She learned the word 'Mudblood' from you!"

"She had just insulted me, my flying skills, and my father in front of Merlin and everyone. What would you do, Potter? Turn the other cheek?" Draco scoffed. Exasperation quickly took hold of the tall blond. "Godric's manky pants! I was barely _twelve_, Potter. Not a hundred and twelve."

"You wished her DEAD!" Harry dredged up another moment from their childhood and threw it at Malfoy's feet like a verbal gauntlet.

"Draco, did you wish the girl dead?" Severus seemed taken back in the wake of Harry's second accusation.

"Those two – this one and his mangy ginger side-kick – sat in the Slytherin common room, at Solstice no less, trying to make me out to be the Heir of Slytherin!"

The look of disappointment from his godfather made Draco explain himself further. "Uncle. Those two were sitting in front of me, posing as Crabbe and Goyle."

"You had no idea that was us!"

Draco leaned closer to Harry, crowding the other man's personal space. He grinned like a shark after a successful feeding. "You forgot to take off your glasses."

"You said that you didn't know your friend could read!" Harry scathingly repeated the second part of Draco's long-ago said sentence.

"Potter – Crabbe and Goyle sat the same lessons as you and I. Vince, Greg, Blaise, Theo, and myself, we all sat at the same table day after day in the Slytherin common room doing our homework. Not only that, but can you honestly say that anyone would've got by in any of their classes if they couldn't read?" Draco's blithe riposte cancelled out Harry's accusation. "I knew it was you and Weasel just like I knew that the two of you weren't smart enough to pull off such a clever little plan all on your own. Granted I shouldn't've said that I hoped that Granger would be the next victim, but I said it for _your_ benefit and _not_ because I truly wished the girl harm, regardless of what she'd said about me or my father or how I earned my place on the Quidditch team."

Harry's eyes narrowed dangerously behind his glasses, unwilling and unable to back down. "You allowed your psycho aunt to torture her! Bellatrix carved YOUR favorite word into her arm with an enchanted knife. Hermione will carry that scar for the rest of her life – and you did NOTHING!"

"That wasn't my fault!" Draco's tenuous control snapped and he all but charged at his dark-haired counterpart. "What was I supposed to do?! Don't you think I can still hear her screams? That I can still see my aunt cast _Crucio_ after _Crucio_ at her every time I look at one of you? That I –"

He swallowed reflexively, as if to force back bile that had crawled up his throat.

"I did what I could." He lowered his voice but not the intensity with which he spoke. "She protected you by disfiguring your face. I protected _you, me _and_ my parents_ because there was nothing I could do for _her_."

"I would have _died_ for her. You didn't, did you?"

"You almost believe your own lies, don't you, Potter? That's your guilt talking, not the truth." Draco sneered, his words lethal in their accuracy. "If you truly felt that way, you wouldn't've gambled with her life in the first place."

"She chose to come with me!" Harry defended himself from Draco's attack.

"_You_ didn't give _her_ a choice, Potter!" Draco jabbed at Harry's chest with his index finger. "When had you ever proven to her that you can take care of yourself? Name one time that you walked away from something that she hadn't, at some critical juncture, saved your arse? How much is it a coincidence that the few times when things went utterly pear-shaped for you matched the times she hadn't been on-hand to rescue you?"

Remus looked on and prayed that all the pain and history being dredged up would initiate the healing necessary for both young men to do what had to be done.

"That scar on her arm isn't the first mark on her body from your carelessness!" Draco was now seething with emotional turmoil and indignation. "The fine line on her cheek from your 'quest' at the end of First Year? Oh – what about those numb spots on her body, albeit small ones, where the mandrake potion didn't completely reverse the petrification? Did you ever even bother to find out how mandrake potion works, Potter?" The blond answered his own question for everyone's, save Severus', edification. "It has to be applied topically. _Everywhere_. Good thing for her that Madam Pomfrey is neither _squeamish_ nor _remiss_ in her Medi-duties." Draco paused for a moment for Harry to understand exactly by what he meant by 'everywhere', 'squeamish', and 'remiss'. Once he saw Harry blanch did he continue. "You might have sat with her day after day and brought her wildflowers, but did you ever look up the long-term effects of petrification? If you did, you'd know that she's more susceptible to organ dysfunctions from being frozen for so long and will always be hypersensitive to stunning and Immobulus spells."

Draco reached out and grabbed Harry's wrist, lifting it until it was ear level, a parody of a vanquishing hero brandishing a blade.

"You know the saying, 'the pen is mightier than the sword'? Well, you slew the beast, Potter." Still holding onto Harry's wrist, he leaned forward until there were only three inches between them. "Granger's pen put the sword in your hand."

Draco released Harry and stepped back a bit. He was done manhandling his counterpart. He was far from done with his lambasting.

"Let's talk about her broken wrist from when you two ran from a werewolf who hadn't ingested his Wolfsbane potion? Bubertuber puss can be neutralized, but marks from the boils remain for _months_. Bet you never bothered to read up on that. You made the connection between the marks left by the puss and the hex she put on that sign-up sheet for your little defense club, right?"

Ruthlessly, Draco circled around Harry yet the two never broke eye contact.

"Did you know that Umbridge marked her as well? That unrepentant cow zeroed in on Granger because she was Muggle-born and your friend. The words, 'The Ministry is Always Right' are centered across the top of her right thigh. Speaking of the Ministry… The residual dark magic from Dolohov's curse has dogged her from the moment it struck her body. The scar she bears because of that curse is the reason why she'll never let anyone see her!"

Harry's legs buckled under the weight of Draco's scorn. With a thud, he landed on the ornate rug that decorated Severus' lounge. Utterly spell-shocked, he looked like he was going to be sick.

The Malfoy heir was breathing heavily. Severus, too, was affected by Draco's hammering. Remus could honestly say that he never blamed Harry for the events of the past seven years. Dumbledore's deluded and misguided machinations bore the brunt of his anger over what had happened to people he cared about. More than once, Remus wondered if Dumbledore's excessive beard was the former headmaster's subconscious showing the world that Albus hid a good portion of his true face.

From his place on the floor, Harry looked up at the blond that stood over him. "How do you know all this?"

"Do you forget who my godfather is, Potter?" Draco almost laughed. Almost. Instead he bent his knees until he balanced his height and weight on the balls of his feet. Deliberately, he didn't lower himself to Harry's eye-level. "Who knows more about the Dark Arts and Defense Against the Dark Arts, and is a certified Potions Master? Who do you think brewed the restorative potions and healing draughts you and your friends sucked down year after year?" The sneer on his lips matched the narrowness of his eyes. "It doesn't take much for someone who supposedly 'doesn't care' to sneak into Pomfrey's office and rifle through her files. The woman always includes a 'psychological impact' with every diagnosis and prognosis." He rubbed the proverbial salt into Harry's mental wounds and then bathed the lot in metaphorical lemon juice. "I can only imagine what someone who cared about her, who _would_ _have_ _died_ _for_ _her_, would've discovered if they weren't feeling sorry for themselves. Maybe that person would've wondered why someone so critically and magically wounded was treated at a school infirmary by a school nurse and not at a hospital by a team of specialized healers after your little field trip at the end of Fifth year? Maybe – just maybe – that person would've questioned why Granger, a relatively healthy and hale witch, had to ingest ten counter-potions to address one Dark curse?"

Ten potions! Remus inhaled sharply. For the girl to be on that many restoratives there had to have been something already in her system that reacted poorly with the initial Healing. Knowing what he did about James and Lily's betrayal, Sirius' wrongful incarceration, Severus' abuse, his own isolation from Harry's life, and the deliberately engineered hell that had been Harry's and Draco's childhoods, tears pooled in Remus' eyes as Draco exposed another one of Dumbledore's machinations. There was no other way to interpret what the Malfoy heir revealed. For some reason, Hermione Granger wasn't supposed to have survived that night. He mentally implored Nimue, Merlin, Morgana, and Godric that Draco hadn't gone too far, that Harry could recover from the blond's rapid-fire blows.

Draco drew in a deep breath. He spent his air on a heavy sigh. Then, he lowered himself so that he was eye-to-eye with Harry.

"This is the last thing I'm going to say, then you and I will leave the past where it belongs: in the past."

Draco accepted Harry's infinitesimal nod as acknowledgment and agreement.

"Potter – in Fifth year, when you went to the Ministry, a lot of people's lives were changed that night. Not just yours. You drew the short straw when Voldemort picked you over Longbottom. Dumbledore did more damage to our world than all the Death Eaters combined. What he did to you, and by extension, to those connected to you… There's not enough justice in this world or the next for what that man did."

Remus watched as a miracle took place in front of him and Severus.

Of his own volition, Draco stretched out his arms and cupped the edges of Harry's shoulders with his palms. He spoke to Harry as if they were the only two in the room, while at the same time never forgetting that his godfather and Harry's 'second' godfather flanked them.

"Things between us are complicated. And they'll stay that way for a long time. There's nothing we can do about that other than do everything we can not to sabotage each other or force the other to walk blindfolded through emotional mine fields as we go forward." He didn't grin, but he didn't grimace. "Neither one of us is a paragon of demonstrative affection. We both hate being told what we 'have' to do and are pants at keeping our mouths shut when someone has a go at us. I know you'll never mimic your Muggle relatives or that rat-bastard Dumbledore. My parents aren't evil incarnate, regardless of public perception, and if I manage to be one-tenth the man that my godfather is I'll do well in this life."

Remus and Severus watched mutely as an expression of hopeful anticipation spread from Draco to Harry.

"We might not have a choice, Potter, in 'which' direction our lives will take. But, we do have a say in 'how' our lives will proceed from this point onward. We can do this together, with the witch we're meant to be with. Or, we succumb to the Curse. Our world suffers collateral damage as we destroy each other in her name."

Harry's lip trembled. The hopeful anticipation transformed into genuine despondency. Harry reached out and matched his palms to Draco's shoulders. His head tilted down to his chest. He murmured into his button-down shirt. "We can't."

"What do you mean, 'we can't'?" Confused, Draco tried to pull away. Harry's grip was firm and it kept him in place.

Remus shot Severus a look of alarm.

Harry lifted his head. The tears in his eyes nearly spilled. It took the Gryffindor, the same one who defeated Voldemort and accepted Draco's olive branch, several anxiety filled moments to find the courage to say why the future Malfoy outlined was nothing more than a pipe-dream.

"She's gone."

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Please Review!


	2. Chapter 2

**To Earn Hermione Jane**

Summary:

In the wake of the final battle against Voldemort, Hermione Granger left the Wizarding world.

Five days later, two men - life-long enemies - realized why they had such a bitter rivalry and that she was one witch they can't - and won't - live without.

Now, Harry and Draco have seven years to:

1. Find her

2. Woo her

3. Woo each other

4. Settle the past

5. Facilitate a future for the three of them within the Wizarding world

If they fail, they'll succumb to the Black Family Curse, a Curse that destroyed Bellatrix and nearly claimed a teen-aged Sirius: sociopathic madness

If they succeed, Harry, Draco and Hermione - together - will have the kind of love, and lives, that'll inspire bards and composers for generations.

The clock started ticking ten days ago... and they have no idea where to start

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**Chapter 2**:

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"_What_!"

Draco and Severus blurted out the same word at the same time as Remus; it was an effort to stop Moony's reactive snarl from being heard by the other three wizards.

"She's gone."

Severus recovered first, but barely.

"She's dead?" Severus twisted his head to the side, as if he were doing a check on his magic. "I'd know." Slytherin to his core, he didn't bother to explain his assertion or the basis behind his conviction. If anything, he sat straighter in his chair. "She's not dead."

Harry shook his head despondently before meeting the Potions Master's eyes. "She might as well be."

Draco surged to his feet. The fact that Harry hadn't rejected him _per_ _se_ did little to calm him.

Remus was flabbergasted. He hadn't seen the curvy, brilliant, lovely witch lately. But then again, he'd been too caught up in the day-to-day adventure of single-parenthood and sussing out the Malfoy-Potter-Granger connection with Severus to really pay attention to her comings and… goings.

"Potter: _come_ _here_," Severus commanded sternly.

Still in a state of spell-shock from everything that had been laid out over the past hour, Harry responded to Severus' authority without hesitation.

Still on his knees, Harry shuffled forward until he was in front of where Severus sat. Harry lowered his haunches until the backs of his thighs pressed against his heels. He didn't jerk away when Severus leaned forward and gently framed his chin with his larger, older, left hand.

Nor did Harry blink when Severus whispered, "_Legilimens_."

It was during the several nerve wracking moments, while Severus sifted through Harry's most recent memories, which Remus ran through all the possible contexts of 'she's gone'. Moony, agitated with concern for the witch, paced at the ever thinning barrier that separated the wolf from Remus.

A murmured, '_finite'_, broke Harry's trance.

Severus shared what he discovered. "Potter wasn't exaggerating."

Draco's rigid posture failed. "Tell us, Uncle."

"Severus – what happened?" Remus needed to know. It was the only way to placate Moony, and tether his own soaring anxiety. Equally important, Harry needed to be put back together and a good portion of that healing had to come from the absentee witch.

"The straw that broke the camel's back, Remus." Severus almost seemed angry with the young woman.

"Don't you dare blame her!" A flash of indignation over-road Harry's despondency.

"Uncle – _please_. For once, can we not be Slytherin about something? Just tell us plainly." Draco's almost plaintive tone reminded all of them that despite everything, Draco, and by extension, Harry, was still only seventeen years old.

"She was sitting with Potter when she heard Shacklebolt –"

"The Acting Minister?" Draco asked, just to confirm that positions hadn't changed hands in the course of the past couple of days.

"Yes." Severus verified. "He and Arthur Weasley were talking about the state of the Ministry. The topic of conversation veered to the Muggleborn Registration Act."

"Vile piece of legislation," Remus spat, his disgust with the state of the Wizarding World evident, "that should never've seen the light of day."

Draco and Severus nodded in agreement. Harry only hung his head.

"Kingsley has no plans to bring Dolores Umbridge up on charges. He said to Arthur that Wizarding Law has no precedent for her 'alleged' crimes. That, and that she has major supporters from the extreme and middle right; she will not face indictment from this administration."

"There's got to be more."

At Draco's five words, Harry had five of his own. "It's my fault she's gone."

Severus didn't attempt to exonerate the young man who still sat in front of him. "The conversation then moved to those incarcerated in Azkaban and housed in the… detention camps; those Umbridge and her Commission convicted and-or 'held for further questioning' for 'stealing magic'."

Remus chuckled darkly. "I can imagine Hermione had something to say about that."

"She did," Harry murmured wretchedly.

Severus fixed his eyes on one of the four tasteful oil paintings that decorated his recuperation suite. "Kingsley and Arthur segued to setting up a meeting with the goblins to make sure that the value of the Galleon was protected by every possible means."

Draco came away from the window. He approached his godfather. With care, he drew the man seated in the old-fashioned high-backed wheeled chair closer to the chaise. Perched on the edge of the cushion, he maneuvered the older Slytherin as close to him as possible.

As only a child could do with a parent as a demonstration of absolute trust and unconditional faith, he placed the tips of Severus' fingers against his temple.

"Show me."

Severus nodded. This time, it was Draco who whispered, "_Legilimens_."

:

_The place she led him to, an inner courtyard that faced the western turrets of the castle, was one of the few places not damaged during the Siege of Hogwarts or the various skirmishes and duels that took place barely ten days prior. _

_Harry had asked Hermione for a quiet place where he could get away from being 'him' for a little while. He needed a break from the reporters, the Ministry officials, the photographers, and the constant questions. Ginny's continuous clinginess made whatever time he spent with his former girlfriend absolutely intolerable. _

_As always, Hermione understood. She took him by the hand and introduced him to one of her 'favorite spots'. Hence the reason why he was whiling away a perfectly lovely afternoon away from everyone who didn't, with only a very few exceptions, matter to him._

_The shrubbery was well-groomed, the grass even and green, and the mid-spring flowers had opened. A few directionally gifted birds pecked at the lush bounty. A smartly-striped pair of red squirrels scurried from plant to plant. The animals paused periodically to twitch their tails, investigate something that could only be important to a red squirrel, and scamper playfully into the protective ground cover. _

"_I found this place back in Third Year." She had a bittersweet smile on her face. The early afternoon sun highlighted the mahogany and dark blonde tints in her fire-whiskey hair and made her skin, skin that was still stretched too tightly over her cheekbones and jaw due to the rigors of rough-living for nearly a year, glow. "It was a lovely place to study, read, or just wait for me to catch up with myself." _

_Harry agreed that it was a pretty place. He could appreciate the peaceful solitude the courtyard fostered. It was just what he needed: alone time with Hermione's soothing presence._

_Their seclusion was short-lived. _

_Two tall figures wandered into their sanctuary from the secondary entrance at the far end of the rhododendron hedge. Arthur Weasley and Kingsley Shacklebolt walked shoulder to shoulder, heads bent towards one another. _

_They weren't speaking loudly and ignored, or just didn't see, the two teens who sat hip-to-hip and hand-in-hand on a simple stone bench under the boughs of a flowering dogwood tree. _

_Harry felt Hermione bristle as Umbridge's name and fate was bandied about. He tightened his grip on her hand as he felt her desire to jump up and rail at the two men as they discussed those incarcerated. She shot him a look of betrayal but it wasn't directed at him. More of a silent invitation for him to join her in her disgust at Kingsley's and Arthur's apparent callousness when the two men transitioned to a discussion pertaining to how to best protect the value of the Galleon. By that time, the men had crossed to their side of the courtyard. With genuine fondness the two wizards inclined their heads at him and Hermione and left. _

_He didn't rise to her call-to-arms. _

_It wasn't that Harry didn't care about those wrongfully imprisoned. He did. He had seen one of Umbridge's 'trials' first hand; he recognized a travesty when he saw it. He was just… so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of being tired, tired of being hungry, tired of seven years of nightmares. He just wanted a little bit of time to himself – truth be told, the only person he could tolerate being near him for any length of time was Hermione – away from all… that. Wasn't he entitled? Didn't he deserve that? Hadn't he earned a little bit of down-time? He wasn't even eighteen yet. He was still a virgin. He wanted to worry about 'normal' things for a change. Like – why didn't he want to kiss Ginny? Why did he find every excuse to get away from her? When did Ron become so… tiresome? Not that he wanted to be uncharitable, but after everything they'd been through, all that they'd seen and done, Ron's focus in this post-Voldemort world was centered around feeding his face, telling stories about their time on the run to anyone who'd ask, and making plans to help George run the joke shop. _

_A joke shop? Really? Harry hadn't even come to grips with Ron's return, Hermione's torture session at the hands of Bellatrix, Dobby's death, or the fact that he, Harry Potter, had _m-u-r-d-e-r-e-d_ someone. Granted it was a 'kill or be killed with the survival of the Wizarding world as we know it hanging in the balance' situation, but it didn't change the fact that he killed someone. Not to mention that he himself committed, for all intents and purposes, suicide. Yeah. That sits well with a bloke. Try coming to terms with all that in a lifetime or less. _

_His grip on Hermione slackened. No longer anchored, she was up and sprinting out of the courtyard. _

_Harry pushed himself to his feet to go after her. _

_There was only one place she'd go. _

_He followed the sounds of increasingly loud voices. _

_Hermione had successfully cornered both men._

"_You're more worried about _inflation_ than the lives of the people wrongfully placed in _Azkaban_?" Her tone was scathing and shame-inducing. _

"_It's not that, Hermione. It's just… It's just that it'll take time to repeal the Registration Act." Kingsley didn't look comfortable. But what seasoned Auror with more than twenty years of experience responds well to being taken to task by an eighteen year old girl who had yet to sit her NEWTs?_

"_You can't let them stay there! It's inhumane! Let alone adding insult to injury to those that woman persecuted!" Hermione looked aghast. "What if it was me? You'd let me stay there, in Azkaban, because at least there I'd have a place to sleep, meager rations, and – oh, yes – it's not like Dementors are there anymore?" It was evident that she was quoting their words back at the two men._

_Harry hated the thought of Hermione anywhere but free and safe. Something neither he nor she had been for a very long time. But, he could see Kingsley's point. Not that he understood all the nuances of Wizarding or Muggle economics, but he could put two-and-two together: money talks and everything else walks. If Kingsley couldn't keep money in the pockets of wizards and witches, his term-of-office wouldn't last long enough for any of them to accomplish anything. _

"_Not indefinitely, Hermione." Arthur tried to placate her. "Just for now. We don't like it much either-"_

"'_Much'?" She cut through his attempt at rhetoric. "Would you 'like it' even less if it were Molly on that god-forsaken island? Ginny? Oh, yeah – that's right. That'd never happen, because both of them are Purebloods. So why would this be personal for you – for either of you? _

"_Okay. Let's say it's last summer, when the Ministry first fell… Let's say Harry was one of the hundreds forced against their will, stripped of their liberty, and subsequently incarcerated." Hermione ticked off each point with a finger. "Harry's mum was Muggleborn. Under the provisos of the Registration Act, he would've been found guilty, his mother declared guilty posthumously, of 'stealing magic'. Where would the Wizarding world be if that had happened? But, oh yeah – it'd be 'okay' to leave him there. Because he'd be housed, fed, and – oh, yeah – 'it's not like there's Dementors there anymore'."_

_It was like she was reciting a closing argument in front of the Wizengamot. Kingsley and Arthur stood there as she settled them squarely in her argumentative crosshairs._

"_Voldemort – he can wait. After all, Harry could always file an appeal. That is, if his paperwork doesn't get 'misfiled', 'lost', or 'otherwise mis-routed', providing he actually gets his hands on the 'necessary forms' in the first place – we all know that the warden distributes them in triplicate alongside evening pudding at Azkaban – with the Commission, to have his case re-evaluated. So yeah – no worries there, Harry." Her sarcasm animated her hands, which she used to mime patting someone on the head._

"_After all, Harry'll understand that 'due process' and all that 'takes time'. Not that Harry had a house, a livelihood, bills to pay, a lawn to trim, an income, or a family, let alone children to care for and protect, before he was whisked away to Azkaban or a ' facility for the possibly guilty'. No problem. Not a problem at all." She had hardly stood still as she systematically exposed the atrocities that first-generations had been subjected to for nearly a year. "He's safe, sound, and duly protected by an unbiased, decisive, _effective_, one-for-all-and-all-for-one Ministry."_

_Kingsley opened and closed his mouth. Arthur blanched. Harry felt bad for the men. They were only trying to do the best they could in light of recent events. _

_And, frankly, he just wasn't in the mood to fight another fight. Kingsley had already approached him, asking him for his support. He hadn't necessarily agreed. But he hadn't said 'no', either. And Arthur. Poor, hen-pecked, Arthur. Even Harry could see how Molly railroaded the man. He, too, deserved a few moments without emasculation. _

_He pressed his hand to hers, intentionally using his touch to break her concentration. She looked at him. He summoned the energy, and will, to scowl at her. "Give it a rest, Hermione."_

_The look on her face! He didn't know what he did wrong, but the way she turned her face away from him… He wanted to take back what he said. He really did. Even if he didn't know why. But what did they know? Arthur and Kingsley had years – longer than then he and Hermione had been alive – of experience of working within the Ministry. _

"_Harry's right, Hermione. You don't have to agree with us, but the Wizarding world, of which you're a part, can't take any dissension right now. Triage is ugly business, but necessary. We won't forget about the Muggleborns-"_

"_You mean 'first generation wizards and witches', right Acting Minister?" Hermione's demeanor toward the three of them was now cold, harsh and contemptuous. _

"_Muggleborns," Kingsley reiterated. "The preservation of the economy is more important-"_

"_Not to me," Hermione informed them succinctly. "Nor should it be for you."_

"_It's been decided. We have a ratified agenda and people in place to see that it's done." Arthur shifted where he stood, but he didn't back down._

_Why would he, Harry thought. She's the age of one of his children._

"_You don't understand." Hermione's bossiness rolled of her in waves. Her magic crackled visually and audibly along her shoulders and down her arms as her analytical prowess and vehemence intensified. "Without winning the trust of first-generation witches and wizards, you won't have a society, an economy, or the necessary gene pool by which to sustain the Wizarding world. You're focusing on what's safe for you, as an administration, rather than what's necessary for survival. To use language you'll understand: you're being a Knut wise and a Galleon foolish!"_

"_Enough, Miss Granger!" Kingsley had reached his limit. "Listen to Mister Potter and let us get on with our business."_

"_Was their blood, their childhood, their families, their magic, not enough to buy them their freedom?"_

_She used the word 'their' to represent those oppressed. It was also a euphemism for her own sacrifices. _

_Harry actually started to feel uncomfortable. On top of being tired, and exhausted, and just plain done, Hermione had to go and make him feel embarrassed to be seen standing with her. _

"_Back off, Hermione." He tugged firmly on her sleeve and whispered in her ear, "You're not going to accomplish anything if you keep going at them. This isn't the time or the place."_

_He watched, mesmerized, as her magic flared brightly, bright enough to flood the surrounding corridors with a bright golden light. The three wizards reflexively protected their eyes with their arms. Then the light retracted, back into Hermione, like it had never unfurled in the first place. _

_A look of sad… he could only interpret it as inevitability…filled her face. "Once, shame on you. Twice, shame on me. What does it mean when it's the seventh?" She erased any and all traces of emotion from her face. "You're right, Harry. You're absolutely right. This is not the time, nor the place." _

_An odd sensation crawled under his skin. He concentrated on what he was feeling. It was like… His magic felt like it was…suddenly deprived of something that was very important to it, to him. That he had caused her irrevocable hurt; her pain was… something he could tangibly feel. _

_Bellatrix Lestrange's wand was nestled in her palm. Kingsley and Arthur both stepped back, leery of a riled, wand-wielding witch. _

_A great _crack!_ echoed in the stone-walled corridor. Broken in two, the two halves of what was once a weapon of great destruction clattered to the floor. _

_The symbolism wasn't lost on him, Arthur or Kingsley. _

_The fact that it dawned on them two minutes after she wordlessly and silently Apparated the split second the two pieces of a snapped walnut wand rolled off of her fingers, something that was supposedly impossible for someone to do from inside the castle, made it two minutes too late to prevent Hermione Granger from renouncing the Wizarding world._

_:_

For a second time, Severus whispered, "_Finite_."

Draco blinked. His face and body revealed every emotion that he was feeling. The most prominent was bitter incredulity, most of which was focused entirely on Harry.

Draco pushed himself to his feet. His hands fisted Harry's shirt. With three powerful strides, Draco had Harry pressed against the far wall.

"Do you know what you've done?!"

Harry lifted his chin. He knew exactly what he'd done. Seven words that he himself – no one else – spoke broke someone who was seemingly unbreakable. He'd thought of little else since she'd left him standing there with a gobsmacked Acting Minister and Senior Undersecretary. "_I_ was the one who had to tell Ron why she'd left. _I'm_ the one Neville slugged when I told him my part in Hermione leaving. _I'm_ the one who's had to endure Luna's air of perpetual disappointment that started the moment she told me that I should've stood with Hermione rather than against her."

"It's always all about _you_, isn't it Potter?" Contempt fueled Draco's muscles as he clapped the Gryffindor against the wall for a second time. "From 'Day One' –"

A subdued, morose, Severus half-heartedly attempted to rein-in his godson. "Release him, Draco. Regardless of what he's done, it doesn't change the fact that-"

"No. It doesn't; she's still gone. But it makes me feel better to shake the living shite out of the spineless wanker."

Harry, gasping through his emotions, hissed, "Kettle, meet Black."

"We're both Blacks, you faithless, disloyal, piece of shite." Draco bounced the man in his grip against the wall a third time. "I was _trapped_ – mentally, physically, psychologically and magically. When I let her down, I didn't have a choice. Me, my mother, nor my father… None of us could even lend her any of our magic to help counter the Cruciatus because Greyback or Bella would've sensed it. My father _went_ _to_ _Azkaban_ because he deliberately chose to let you break that feckin' prophesy orb instead of letting Riddle take a listen. Dumbledore _ripped_ the last shred of innocence from my godfather when the man was on his knees begging for clemency and yet Severus _still_ did the bidding of two mad men because of a promise he made over woman who he _loved_ more than his own _soul_. Granger withstood the kind of pain that _separated_ Longbottom's parents from their _sanity_ and still she didn't crack. In fact, it was because of her that you all got in and out of Gringotts! Lupin, with his transformations, finds it within himself to care for his son – a Black, just like you and me – with the same hands that rend flesh from bone three nights a month. _That's_ the definition of courage, Potter.

"You? Your excuse? The reason why you let her down, didn't stand up with her: you were _tired_? You felt _embarrassed_? You didn't want to _fight_ any more?"

"You don't understand!" Harry struggled to explain himself.

"Tell us, Potter. What did Granger mean when she said, 'Once, shame on you, twice, shame on me. What does the seventh mean?'"

"Yes, Potter. Enlighten us," Severus purred maliciously.

Remus could only watch. He and Moony were too caught up in a maelstrom of emotions to intervene on Harry's behalf.

Harry twisted his body, wrenched Draco's hands off of his shirt. With a mighty shove, he pushed his greatest rival away from him with enough force that it took several steps for Draco to recover his footing. The former Slytherin Seeker didn't charge again. Instead, he stood there, feral and angry, and, underneath it all, unable to hide his first stirrings of hopelessness.

"You don't think I haven't…I've had plenty of time to think about all the times I've forgotten her birthday, ignored her, taken her for granted…" Tears of frustration, of pent-up anger at himself, at Hermione for leaving him, for all that had been withheld from him in regards to the Black blood that flowed in his veins and Dumbledore's machinations, spilled from his eyes unhindered.

"In Third Year, I didn't stand up for her when Ron accused her familiar of killing his pet rat. In Fourth Year, Ron lit into her at the Yule Ball for going to the Yule Ball with Krum. I didn't stop him or stand up for her then either. I never apologized to her for not believing her when she said that Voldemort was trying to lure me into a trap by planting images of Sirius at the Ministry in my head. I yelled at her for breaking my wand instead of thanking her for saving my life when we escaped from Godric's Hollow just before Christmas. When Ron came back, after he walked out on us, I made it clear that she should make up with him, instead of the other way around." He gestured to Severus and how the two Slytherins now shared the last of his Hermione memories. "You saw the seventh time."

A good portion of Harry's sins against Hermione were laid out in all their shameful glory.

What kind of person was Harry, who could do that to someone who had never let him down? Remus surreptitiously sniffed at a new scent in the air: catharsis. What kind of person was Harry to find a modicum of peace at unburdening his soul by revealing some of his greatest interpersonal mistakes? What kind of person was Harry, who never appreciated what he had?

"You're human, Harry." Remus gave the younger man the only reassurance he could muster. He switched his gaze from Harry to Severus. Draco continued to stand at his godfather's shoulder. "At least we know the 'why'. Now, all we have to do is find her."

"Don't you think I've tried!" Harry threw his hands up in the air. "Five minutes after she Apparated, I went looking for her. Every day I've searched for her. Everywhere I looked, she wasn't there."

"The girl can disappear, the girl can hide, but we can find her," Severus asserted. The man was already combing through his considerable knowledge as to how to best go about it.

"She's the reason why we weren't found. If I hadn't broken the taboo, we'd never've stepped foot inside Malfoy Manor…" Harry collapsed into his chair. The man's magic hummed with pervasiveness of his guilt and misery. "If she doesn't want to be found, if Hermione doesn't want anything to do with us, then we'll never find her."

"Unless you want to descend into madness, I suggest you open up your thought processes and utilize that grey matter that exists between your ears," Severus reminded them both what was at stake. In a softer tone, he said, "More importantly, the three of you have a chance to live the lives that will inspire bards and composers for generations. If you can get over yourselves, find the girl, and convince her of the sincerity of your combined intentions, the three of you and your children will revitalize our world. I am convinced that if Lily had closed the circle, accepted that cur of a wizard as she'd accepted Potter, than the three of them could have defeated Riddle, averting twenty years of pain and heartache."

"Granger hasn't sat for her NEWTs. That's something in our favor." Severus carried his thought process one step further. "With the Muggleborn Registration Act still active and her education yet to be finalized, her employment options will be extremely limited. Not to mention the fact that between her years at Hogwarts, Skeeter's libelous articles, the showdown that took place in front of the main gates of the school, and your little stunt at Gringotts," he jutted his chin in Harry's direction, "her face is well known. Someone's going to see her somewhere." He glanced over at Remus, then Harry, then Draco. "We'd be foolish to assume that we'll be the only ones looking for her. Should the need arise, we need to be able to intercede."

Harry's head snapped up at that. Moony concurred with Severus. Remus answered his defacto godson's alarmed expression with a nod of acknowledgement.

Harry fidgeted as he came to terms with a very Slytherin take on, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'.

"It's hard to imagine Hermione having enemies. But then again, I have enemies. It makes sense that she'd have them, too." Harry suddenly reeked of fear for the girl. "Dolohov has yet to be accounted for!"

"What's he have to do with this?" Remus recognized the name of the Death Eater, but not why the man provoked such a response from Harry.

"Last summer, after we escaped from the wedding, we ended up in this café. Dolohov and one of his cronies came in while we were there." A wry grin creased his face. "We dueled. They lost." His half-grin relaxed into a frown as he finished his story. "Hermione Obliviated both of them and then we left."

Draco chimed, "Dolohov was Obliviated; he never remembered seeing you three. But he was punished nonetheless because Aunt Bella and Yaxley knew he'd been dispatched and when they came back to the Manor, looking worse-for-wear, Yaxley _Priori'_d Dolohov's wand. Dolohov bowed over Voldemort's hems and vowed on his magic to separate Granger from her heartbeat." The blond heir added, "Father and I could understand why Dolohov deduced that it was Granger who'd Obliviated him, but at the time, didn't understand why the man had made such a declaration."

Harry leaned forward and peered intently at Remus, Draco and Severus. "Dolohov was the one who nearly killed Hermione back in Fifth year. She's out-hexed him twice. If there's anyone who'll be keen on evening the score against her, it'll be Dolohov."

Given the looks that Severus and Draco exchanged, it was only going to be a matter of time before Dolohov's whereabouts were ascertained. Given the fact that Severus was still too ill to leave the grounds of the convalescent home, the four of them would have to bring another into their confidence. Remus instinctively knew that Lucius would sit in on their next get-together. Oddly, Moony approved of the likelihood that the cagey older Malfoy would be joining their ranks.

"Who else?" Draco pressed for more names.

"That Snatcher, the one who brought us to your house," Harry answered with only a moment's introspection. "Scapier? I think that's what they called him. There was so much going on right then." He was clearly reliving their capture but quickly broke his reverie. "I only heard his name once and it was indirectly at that."

"Scabior." Draco corrected. He grimaced over the Snatcher's lack of guest-etiquette. "He was even less house-broken than that bastard Greyback. The man didn't even try to keep it in his pants; thought I was going to find him rutting against the bannister because he liked the smell of the furniture polish."

"He liked the way she smelled, too. No matter how rough we lived, she always smelled nice." Harry's half-smile over how his…mate…somehow always appealed to him became a shudder as he recalled Scabior's fascination with Hermione.

"He leered at her; called her 'pretty', but not in a good way. I could tell… It was clear he… He made it clear that he _wanted_ her." Harry's cheeks pinked as he struggled to translate Scabior's innuendos into more acceptable language. Remus could sense the slight increase in the young man's heart-rate as Harry realized why he felt the compulsion to put himself between that Snatcher's lasciviousness and Hermione's virtue.

Moony didn't like the sound of that. Hermione was Pack. No one took any liberties with any member of his pack. Severus and Draco could have Dolohov. Scabior's hide belonged to Remus and Moony.

"Your eyes, Remus." Harry's voice came out as a strained whisper. "They're almost all amber."

"Calm yourself, Lupin. If Draco and Potter can repress their Veela natures in light of this news, you can put a leash your wolf."

Severus' attempt to shame him into regaining control worked. Remus could actually feel his wolf retreat.

"Lupin." Draco's tone garnered Moony's attention, too. "Scabior man-handled her, made allusions, and…petted…her; he got-off on scaring her, but he didn't… My dearly demented aunt was the only one who hurt her that day."

"Anyone else that you can think of, Harry?" Remus asked once he felt like he could speak without growling his words. The Malfoy heir's depiction of what had happened that day swung control back to Remus but it didn't change the fact that, at some point in time, Moony would pick his teeth with Scabior's bones.

Harry shook his head. He didn't have any more names to offer at the moment.

"There's something you all need to know." Remus didn't relish the setback he was about to share with the other three. "Hermione isn't without means."

"What does that mean, Lupin?" Severus turned his black gaze his way.

"Her inheritance from her grandparents was put into a trust fund before she was born. Her parents managed the account well. She also has access to a rather substantial university fund started by her parents when she was born. Neither account was ever transferred to Gringotts. Her parents allocated a separate account specifically for her to use while she attended Hogwarts."

"She has enough money to go pretty much anywhere and do anything," Draco surmised.

"How do you know so much?" Harry seemed dazed and a bit bewildered at the extent that Remus knew about Hermione's Muggle-life.

Remus and Moony treasured their connection to the young witch. It was something to be protected and cherished. However, right now, revealing the basis of their kinship would not diminish it. Withholding information would only make adversaries out of much needed allies. "Remember when she called out to me, that night in the Forbidden Forest?"

Harry nodded. He wasn't ever going to forget that night.

"My wolf claimed her as Pack; Moony took my magic's affinity with the girl and my genuine fondness for her one step further by adopting her as his cub. Now that she's older, my wolf recognizes her as an alpha female of my – _our_ - pack."

"She knows about this?" Severus asked. Not out of fear but out of concern for the girl, in case she didn't understand what it meant to be considered 'Pack' by a werewolf.

"Yes." He had talked to the witch extensively about their three-pronged connection. "Which is why she trusted me to liaise between her and the Muggle-side of her life."

"Among other things, Lupin." Severus clearly suspected there were additional 'Pack' details that he hadn't shared with Moony's adopted cub.

Draco moved back to Severus' chaise. He sat heavily on the cushion. His head dipped to the space between his spread knees. It was from this position he asked, "What else, Lupin? There's more. You're holding something back. I can _feel_ it. If Potter focused on someone other than himself, he'd feel it too."

Remus couldn't deny that the Malfoy heir possessed a talent for perception.

"How much do you know about Hermione's parents? Her family? Her background?"

"I know that they're somewhere in Australia," Harry chimed in on the conversation. The cuffs of his button down had yet to dry from when he'd wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeves.

Neither Malfoy nor Severus expected to hear that.

Potter blew out a deep breath and recounted the lengths she'd gone to in order to safe-guard her parents' lives. "She purged their memories of anything to do with her and planted the desire to move to Australia. She set up fake names and everything for them."

Severus chortled into the back of his hand. It took him a full moment to moderately compose himself. "That's what she told you?"

Draco sided with Severus. Remus held back from saying anything even though he, too, agreed with Severus. Harry stiffened at the insinuation that he'd been lied to. "That's what she told me!"

"Granted the girl is ridiculously powerful; she'd have to be, to be mated to two, magically endowed, Veelas such as yourselves." The Potion Master leveled a piercing look at Harry. "Have you really thought about what it would mean to erase the connection between mother and daughter, father and daughter, and husband to wife, especially when there's a magical child between them?" Severus smirked, thoroughly amused with Harry's naïveté. "Look at your own connection to Lily. Then consider Granger's connection to her mother and father. I'd sooner believe that she helped her parents change their names and hired the movers that relocated them somewhere under our very noses before I'd believe that the blood bonds between parent and child could be severed by anything other than death. I'd say that the only place we don't have to look for them, by extension, her, is Australia."

Remus broke more bad news. "There are two more things you all need to know."

"Which are?" Severus dryly prompted, not wanting to hear the latest revelations but resigned to the fact that without the information there'd be no hope in bringing the girl home.

"Hermione's parents… They are really well connected. Like, Mayfair and Downing Street connected. Charlotte and Richard Granger possess fairly impressive familial and academic pedigrees. They made sure that those connections extended to and included Hermione. Neither one of them were thrilled at the prejudice directed at their daughter. They wanted to make sure that Hermione had a place within their social, political and educational strata should she ever have the need."

"And the other, Lupin?" Draco asked, clearly braced to hear the worst.

"Hermione's Muggle A-Level results. She has them, as well as all her other Muggle academic and civil accreditations. For months, that file folder has been safely tucked away in a warded drawer in my study. A couple of days ago, I noticed that it was gone." He fought, and lost, the impulse to cast a bit of blame at Harry. "Now I know why."

"When?" Harry scrambled to put together some sort of Hermione timeline in regards to 'what' she did 'when'.

"A month before Bill and Fleur's wedding, I escorted her and three other Muggleborns to sit for their A-Level qualifiers."

"I never knew…" Harry hung his head and he fiddled with his fingers as more of Hermione's life – a life that was separate as much as it was tied to Harry's ultimate goal of defeating the wizard formally known as Tom Riddle.

"You never asked," Draco sniped coldly.

"I never even thought to ask, Draco." Harry lifted his chin, his gaze fixed on the trees outside the far window. Harry's eyes were large and haunted as he didn't bother to refute the blond's underlying subtext. "Her future never even crossed my mind."

"I take it you reviewed her results?"

Severus' question efficiently cut through Harry's self-recrimination and brought them all back to the matter at hand. Remus also knew why Severus wanted to know about Hermione's results. Her scores would give them a place to start looking for her.

"Do you need to ask?" Remus smirked wryly. Even while taking a full course load at a magical boarding school, she succeeded in studying for her Muggle equivalency exams with only her study group as witnesses. "Her parents filed her under the 'home-schooled with private instruction' category, to avoid any complications with her paperwork. Their lifestyle substantiated their claims; their connections guaranteed that no one would think to look twice. By the time she started Hogwarts, she spoke French and German fluently, as well as passable Japanese. She explained it to me as, 'being able to converse in the languages of diplomacy, industry, and economics'."

"She also picked up – at least she could speak them three years ago – Bulgarian and Russian. Her Czech was a bit stilted but understandable." Draco all but groaned as he added another couple of languages to the list. He rolled his eyes at the 'how would you know' look Potter shot him. "I made it a point to socialize with the Durmstrang students, remember? Purebloods from all over Europe attend that school. Do you really think that Krum was the only one from Durmstrang who talked to her?"

"Told you. She's a planner." Harry returned to the previous topic of Hermione and her penchant for back-up plans. A habit she probably learned from her from her parents. "We'd never have made it if it weren't for her." Harry shook his head, his admiration for someone he failed as a friend, too little but hopefully not too late, scented the room.

"She knew her birth status would've prevented her from being accepted into any reputable apprenticeship or mastery programs." Severus spoke as much for his own assessment of the girl's motivations as much as it did to Hermione's 'Plan B' mentality.

"I could've helped her with that!" Draco punched the air out of frustration. It didn't change the fact that what his godfather said was true. He glared at Harry. "Between our money, your name and my family's connections, there's nothing we couldn't do for her!"

"I bolloxed everything up – I get it!" Harry lifted his chin defiantly. He was only going to allow those in the room to kick him so much. "I'll do my part to fix it, too."

Remus reached out and clapped his hand to Harry's back. "We know you will, Harry. And, it wasn't just you. All of us – including Hermione – contributed to this mess. No one's innocent. Together, we'll sort it out. I promise."

"You have a lot to do." Severus specifically looked at Draco and Harry. "You have to learn to, or, if you prefer a more Hufflepuff approach, discover the… love… that connects the two of you. With the two of you united, it'll make it easier for you to explore the reasons why your Veela chose Miss Granger as your mate. Not only that, but you have to find the bloody girl." He outlined the logistics the four of them – five with the addition of Lucius Malfoy – faced. "There are six billion people in this world, seven continents, four oceans, and thousands of unplotted islands. Your quarry is fiercely intelligent, angry, hurt, linguistically gifted, and above all, highly motivated to ensure that your paths don't cross."

"As a predator," Remus closed his eyes as he acknowledged Moony's baser instincts aloud, "it's imperative that I consider everything I know about my prey as I hunt for it. What it likes, what it dislikes, its natural enemies, _everything_. But, a rabbit is still a rabbit. Hermione is, after all, still Hermione. However, now she's Muggle Hermione, with Witch Hermione as the underwriter of her new life."

"Above all else, she has to come back of her own volition. If she doesn't, she'll resent you and her magic will refuse the bond. Your timing will have to be perfect." Severus' next bit of advice negated the 'if all else fails initiate Plan B: All Muggle All the Time' that skulked around the edges of their discussion. "The magical resonance the three of you would generate, should you think that you two can live a purely Muggle existence with her, would make that an impossibility. The three of you must live your lives in the Wizarding world."

Draco looked to his godfather after his grey gaze shifted away from Remus. "How much time do you think we have?"

"Given the connection Harry shared with Voldemort, and the fact that you were Marked against your will – another thing the you two have in common – I'd say that the clock was reset the moment Tom Riddle ceased to exist. If history were to repeat itself? Sirius started to transition into true sociopathic episodes by Samhain of our sixth year. I'd say that seven years would be the absolute maximum before your conditions would become irreversible," Remus hypothesized even though Draco's question was posed to Severus.

"It sounds like a lot of time, but, to use Lupin's metaphor, you're working against the proverbial clock. Twenty minutes ago, Draco was throttling you without compunction, Mister Potter." Severus, now overly tired and physically flagging, reminded the two young men of recent events. "Miss Granger has renounced everyone and everything concomitant with the Wizarding world without so much as a backwards glance."

It hung in the air just how far they had to climb just to acquire a place from which the two most emotionally damaged young men of the current generation could even begin to court the witch that called to their blood, magic and souls.

"We'll do it, Remus," Harry vowed.

"We have to, Uncle." Draco clasped his hands together and let them hang between his knees. He shot Harry an enigmatic look. "We have to."

"We're going to need help, Malfoy." The days of Harry charging into an unknown battlefield without sufficient back-up were clearly behind him.

"No, Potter."

Draco lifted his chin and leaned backwards until the top of his head and shoulders rested against the back of the chaise. The true scope of what they had to do tempered his enthusiasm.

"We're going to need a lot of help."

'

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**Extremely long author's note...**

Okay - just want to share that I'm not Harry-bashing, per se, nor am I trying to make Harry out to be less intelligent than he actually is. Harry is, like almost all of JKR's characters, a complicated person. Part of his personality is that he can be very self-asborbed. Not as much or to the extreme of Ron, but with the POV of the HP books being almost exclusively from Harry, and given the fact that Harry is one of the most reluctant heroes to have ever been crafted, Harry isn't necessarily the first character to be 'tuned into' the needs of his friends and acquaintences beyond what pertains to him plot-wise. One of the biggest differences between the HP movies and the HP movies is that Harry, in the movies, is much more 'demonstrative' and empathetic than he is in the books. Not to say that Harry isn't sensitive in the books, but for the sake of the movie audiences, I believe that Harry had to be made more sensitive for viewer-response.

Also, in regards to Harry's emotional developement... Harry's a fairly stunted person, emotionally. He only has the limited interactions with the Weasley family and his limited circle of friends and the commeraderie of the Quidditch team to formulate how he interacts with those who are in his life. At this point, as far as To Earn Hermione Jane is concerned, after the destruction of Voldemort, after his little tete-a-tete with the extremely manipulative Dumbledore at the metaphysical Kings Cross, and with where this story picks-up/starts, Harry's fairly shattered. He finds Ginny to be clingy and trying, Ron to be tiresome, Remus is alive, Tonks is dead, Severus is alive, and he's t-i-r-e-d. Bone-achingly, soul-achingly, tired. As he should be! He's been on the most vicious emotional and physical rollercoaster for seven years. He's entitled to feel a little sorry-for-himself. It makes him human, especially since he's not quite eighteen and emotionally stunted. Hence the reason why he told Hermione, in this story, to back-down. What he didn't articulate to Hermione, as far as this story goes, is that he didn't add, 'for now'. And that is what he should've said. But he didn't.

Draco has been through his own hell... There's a parable about God being a master-potter. That we are all clay pots, and that we can be broken, reformed, fired, and made into something new by the Master Potter. I'm not preaching religion - I'm sharing a parable. Draco has had A LOT of time to t-h-i-n-k. The HP Wiki states that Draco is a good student. So, he isn't stupid. He's had a lot thrown at him, especially since Voldemort's resserection. I believe that Voldemort forced Draco to become a Death Eater shortly after Voldemort's defeat at the Ministry of Magic (Fifth Year, OotP) as punishment for Lucius' failure to gain the prophesy and subsequent capture along with the rest of Lucius' team. Would Draco have become a Death Eater anyway? Who knows! That's what fan-fiction is for. But, for the sake of this story, and my own personal belief: Draco was forced to become a Death Eater within hours of Voldemort's MoM defeat. That being said... Draco has had two years to think - about everything. Hence the reason why he can speak so coherently to Harry about the heritage (according to this story) they share, and why Draco can be 'okay' with what Remus and Severus revealed. Draco has seen, first hand and up-close-and-personal what Voldemort's 'reign', dogma, and 'personal attention' looks like. He's had time to think about Harry's predicament... How Dumbledore betrayed Severus... How Dumbledore failed as a Headmaster by not thwarting Draco's pathetic assassination attempts by just calling Draco into the Headmaster's office and confronting his sixteen year-old self. The result of all Draco's ruminations is that Draco is in a bit more mentally healthier (I use the word 'healthier' very sparingly) place than Harry because Harry's been on the run, hiding out, confused as hell, fearful, and overwhelmed with only Hermione and part-time Ron as emotional and mental sounding boards. Draco has a similar dysfunctional, inadequet support system... A part-time father (Lucius in Azkaban until the big break out), a part-time godfather (Severus' role as spy and then Headmaster would limit how much time Snape would have for Draco), and Narcissa... Can't say much about her because her role will be pivotal to the plot-line of this story. But, needless to say, she could only do so much from home as Draco was at school for eighteen of the twenty four months beween the end of Fifth Year and the 'Final Battle'. Draco, in this story, does have friends: Blaise, Theo, Adrian, Marcus. But, with Voldemort camped out at his family's home, I can only imagine how stilted conversations - held in public at least - must have been for Draco. Hence why I use the term 'healthier' most sparingly when comparing Draco to Harry's mental health.

Hermione... please! - don't think I've made her too perfect! She's NOT! Trust me! If anything, she's in an even more desperate state than Harry. I don't want to go into this too much, because her anger and trust issues will play a HUGE role in this story... But know that this is no perfect-Hermione story. But, on the flip side... As a survivor of a complicated life, I can attest - as can all of you who are reading this - that we, as humans, have this amazing capacity to compartamentalize: we can have pain, and angst, and strife swirling around us, affecting our souls, but we'll still do what we have to do. We'll honor our commitments to ourselves and find ways - albeit mostly subconciously - to showcase our pain as well as deal with our pain. 'How' we showcase what we're feeling/grappling with, is always unique to our own personality traits. And, with that being said, Hermione has her own personality traits and hence reveals her pain in ways that are unique to her.

Whew! Sorry about all that~ But, I wanted to make sure that no one was put-off by thinking that this is a Perfect Hermione, Harry-Bashing, Idealized Draco story!

Okay - onto the next chapter, yea?


	3. Chapter 3

**To Earn Hermione Jane**

Summary:

In the wake of the final battle against Voldemort, Hermione Granger left the Wizarding world.

Five days later, two men - life-long enemies - realized why they had such a bitter rivalry and that she was one witch they can't - and won't - live without.

Now, Harry and Draco have seven years to:

1. Find her

2. Woo her

3. Woo each other

4. Settle the past

5. Facilitate a future for the three of them within the Wizarding world

If they fail, they'll succumb to the Black Family Curse, a Curse that destroyed Bellatrix and nearly claimed a teen-aged Sirius: sociopathic madness

If they succeed, Harry, Draco and Hermione - together - will have the kind of love, and lives, that'll inspire bards and composers for generations.

The clock started ticking ten days ago... and they have no idea where to start

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Many and grateful thanks to Severus' Malfoy Maiden ( www . fanfiction u / 2042569 / - eliminate the spaces after cutting-and-pasting) for her wonderful beta'ing. Also, her Veela story isn't to be missed! I'm DESPERATELY awaiting an update on that story! All of her stories are a joy to read.

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**Chapter** **3**:

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.

_Five_ _Years_ _Later_…

September 12th, 2003

Loubomo, Congo

One-hundred and fifteen miles from the Gabon, Africa border

:

If it were a hundred years ago, he'd be whipping a team of horses into a fine lather as he yelled at people to get out of their way. Instead, the car's horn spoke for him as they bowled through the urban sprawl of decaying city streets in a third-world country. He raced to put as much distance as possible between the woman beside him and the gun-toting mercenaries hell-bent on taking her captive.

One-handed, Kostadin Dakova yanked the steering wheel of the battered Range Rover to the right – hard. His foot never lifted from the accelerator. He and his passenger tilted to the side as the axle whined in protest; his grip on the gear lever gave him enough leverage to remain relatively centered. His companion's penchant for wearing a seat-belt prevented her from being tossed out of the rapidly moving vehicle.

"Kostas, vozi brže!"

He spared a glance at the woman seated beside him who was yelling at him to drive faster.

Normally, Jamie Drayton was an excellent passenger. He'd been assigned to her as her bodyguard three years ago and together they made an exceptional team. It helped that they came to an understanding early-on in their partnership. The outcome of that Jamie-dominated conversation? As she succinctly put it: if he respected the fact that she had a life to live and wasn't going to stand for an alpha-male dictatorship, she'd respect the fact that he had a job to do that was directly impacted by how she lived her life, ergo there was no reason why two budding professionals couldn't form a mutually-beneficial, symbiotic relationship. _And besides_, she added, _we might just find out that we actually like each other_. As they worked together and got to know one another, their 'middle ground' grew exponentially. She never failed to make sure that whenever possible, their map collection was up-to-date and the CD player was well stocked with his favorite Eastern European and Japanese angry-female rock and techno bands. Whenever possible, she stowed a bottle of his favorite English lager inside their supply duffle bag.

He was equally diligent when it came to making sure that she lived to see another day, another country, and another 'another'. If there was anyone who could truly save the world, one person at a time, it was Jamie Drayton. Plus, she'd earned his respect. He didn't have to 'like' someone to protect them. But with her, he wanted to protect her. She was so unlike any of his previous clients in the sense that, if there was one person who – if not for what she did for a living – didn't need someone with his particular skill-set to watch her back, it was Jamie Drayton. He'd seen her light a campfire with nothing but two sticks and patience, stare down a stone-walling diplomat, and comfort a distraught spouse with the same unique blend of genuine compassion, self-confidence and shrewd savvy that she used to navigate a reception hall, solicit a larger donation from a hesitant donor, and defend her dissertation.

It was the 'running for our lives' bit when Jamie's alpha-femaleness and Type A personality stopped being endearing and, something he'd only admitted to once when he was drunk, palliative.

Jamie was also the reason why he rarely spoke English when they were on assignment.

Her Serbian sounded so much prettier than his English.

"Pazi! Gledaj kuda vozis! Gledaj kuda vozis!"

"Vidim!" Right now, all he wanted to do was hit the woman with a tranquilizer dart. Too bad the tranq gun was lashed out-of-reach above the rear window.

She reached forward. Her taut forearms strained against the intricately patterned leather cuffs that circled each of her narrow wrists. She pressed flattened palms against the dash board and squeezed her eyes shut as he jerkily swerved around a goat that decided that right then was the best time to stop in the middle of the road and stare at a speeding SUV.

Goat avoided, Kostas' attention reverted to the rear-view and side-view mirrors. The truck that followed them into the city, the one that had three additional machine gun toting 'gentlemen' propped against the cab of the truck, was still 'on their six'.

"Šta sam ti rekao?" He gritted his teeth as he abruptly down-shifted so that they wouldn't stall when they took the next corner a tad sharper than the twenty-something-year-old factory-issued much-repaired Rover was designed.

"Jesi osetila to? Mislim da se jedeh od točkova podigao!" Her eyes were wide. Her faith in him ran just as wide. That didn't stop her from second-guessing him. "Ja tebi ne govorim kako da vozis a ti meni ne govorim kako da brijem noge."

"Upravo!" The fact that she actually blushed a bit when she answered him meant that he automatically forgave her for breaking one of his cardinal rules.

Taking another corner, the unfiltered African sun now beamed straight into their eyes. She flipped down his visor and then her own. He gave her a wry smile as a 'thanks'. A sudden dip in the road jostled both of them. The next pot-hole nearly separated the undercarriage from the frame of the SUV.

"Koliko još?" Kostas eyed the fuel gauge. Given the urban terrain of the shabby town of Loubomo, they were going to burn through petrol quickly.

"Jos sto pedeset miga do Gabonske granice."

He flicked his gaze back to the fuel gauge and did the math in his head. It would be close, but if they could put enough distance between them and their pursuers, individuals who had a vested interest in making sure that the pictures Jamie took of the squads of child soldiers never reached the outside world, then there was enough fuel in their tank to get them to safety. The trick would be getting far enough ahead of the truck that was following them so that he and Jamie would be able to cross the border without getting shot in the process.

Well, without him getting shot.

Not that he cared about getting shot; that was his job: take the bullet, knife wound, put himself between Jamie and Jamie's assailant's weapon-of-choice. No. What he cared about was the distress that Jamie would go through once he started to recuperate. It had happened only once, three months after he was first assigned to guard her. He folded his seventy-four inches of well-muscled body over her sixty-three inches of finely-boned petiteness as a sniper decided that a candle-light vigil in Bogotá was the best place to hone his marksmanship.

As far as wounds went, the damage done by the two bullets that burrowed into his upper trapezius was relatively minor. A bit of emergency surgery, a couple of days confined to a hospital bed, two-weeks of having to have his shoulder immobilized, some physical therapy afterwards, and he was back on duty.

Jamie, though, was a mess. She hardly left his side while he was in the hospital. She flew in his parents and sister to Columbia and put them up at a nearby hotel. She passed his father a credit card, with his name on it, and told him to use it.

The best part, though, as he shared with his cousin in a letter, was that after he returned to duty, she didn't cancel any of their up-coming trips. As she was between University semesters when he'd been shot, she'd been asked to assist the Amnesty International team that'd been sent to Kassala, Sudan to investigate instances of female genital mutilation. Once she consulted on finalizing that report, she was then to go on to Haiti to contribute to the on-going plea to the Haitian government to release Prisoner of Conscience Delaine Alena Bernard before returning to Stanford.

That was the 'game changer' for him in regards to how he saw her. The fact that she didn't back down, not for her sake nor for his and that she placed the blame for his injury firmly where it belonged: with that sniper. He'd had clients react in a far more typical fashion: self-recrimination, blaming their lifestyle, changing the way they lived their lives so that he wouldn't be at risk or blaming him for his injury because they were incapable or lived a life far too privileged or too sheltered to assign any perspective to their feelings and motivations. Not her. She simply passed him his three sets of plane tickets – center seat, two rows back and behind her, same as always – a bottle of his favorite lager, and asked him to review their itinerary sooner rather than later as their first flight taxied off the tarmac in the morning.

After that, guarding her became less of a 'job' and more of a measure of his personal and professional mettle.

"Ubice nas ako ostanemo ovoe."

Her muttered declaration about their prospective lack of life-expectancy jolted him out of his reverie. Apparently her sums, current volume of petrol multiplied by the vehicle's kilometer-per-liter and then matched to the number to kilometers to the nearest safe border, came out a bit different from his.

The car was bouncing too hard for her to lean back and rummage through the maps strewn across the backseat. For the most part, the maps were for his benefit. He'd yet accompanied her to somewhere she didn't know the layout of wherever they were sent. Her penchant for planning was something he could, and did, count on since Day One of their partnership. Today was no exception.

He could also count on her for coming up with half the plans they used to get themselves out of scrapes.

"Drži se," he cautioned. He eyed the grip she had on the armrest and her seat belt. Twenty yards ahead was a four-way intersection. There was no way in the seven hells he was going to lose their meager lead over something as trivial as a stop-sign.

"Kao da vei ne dreim pucko sue vreme!"

He ploughed through the intersection. He felt not a twinge of guilt when two bicyclists and a Bondo-spackled sedan careened into the sides of the adjacent buildings.

"Oh, Bože!"

That made him smile. Miss Cool, Calm and Collected was, right now, anything but as she screwed her eyes shut at the almost-carnage they left in their wake.

That is, until she dragged her top teeth over her bottom lip.

He knew that tell. She was coming up with a plan.

She fished out the satellite phone from the glove-box and started pressing buttons. Out of the corner of his eye, he recognized the country code she keyed; she was dialing England…

* * *

.

Loe Bar Road

Porthleven

Cornwall, England

:

Alec Digges wasn't the young man he used to be. Well into his seventies, stooped at the shoulders, be-jowled, and not as spry or as healthy as he used to be, there was very little he hadn't seen or done. He could honestly say that if the Good Lord came to him and told him that he only had an hour left to live he could honestly say that he'd lived a good life and could die without any significant regrets.

Among his modestly acknowledged accomplishments was the fact that he, along with a handful of others, founded Amnesty International. Now, nearly forty years after his dear friend Peter Benenson published the article that started it all, after tangling with governments, dictators, political puppets, and the unscrupulous underbelly of the international conglomerate, there was very little that rattled him.

That is, until he discovered two very different men seated in the library-cum-study of his country house two weeks ago.

Both were tall, easily six-feet in height if not a bit more, late thirties – maybe early forties – and quite fit. The dark haired fellow had 'old eyes', reminiscent of a Prisoner of Conscience that had, by strength of will and depth of character, re-acclimated to the concept of freedom. The sandy-haired fellow with his oddly colored tri-tonal eyes carried himself… His first impression of the man was that the affable persona he projected didn't stem from an inherent naiveté.

He never bothered with asking them how they circumvented his security system or evaded his household staff. Nor did he ask how they'd found him.

Not that he lived in hiding. He just didn't advertise himself. Nor did he give anyone a reason to come looking for him. As he was fond of saying, 'I've already done my best work'; he didn't seek the limelight or any additional accolades. The mail-box posted at the end of his driveway didn't bear his name. Everyone 'in town' knew who he was, of course, but English sensibility had a way of keeping notoriety out of the word 'neighbor'. His Quaker-bred modesty prevented him from naming his seaside 'cottage' in a self-aggrandizing or flamboyant fashion.

He considered laurels to be among the best shade trees.

In all his travels, and with all his connections, he was aware of 'what' the two men were. He just didn't know 'who' they were.

The conversation they had that first morning was a rousing round of thrust-and-parry. They brandished a photograph of a teen-aged girl and informed him that they knew that he knew where to find her. He informed them that they were welcome to stay for lunch as he had an appointment to keep and would be leaving the cottage shortly.

For the past fortnight, every conversation they shared started and ended the same way.

Today would be different. They just didn't know it yet.

Just as their previous encounters, both visitors waited for him to take his place behind his glossy antique cherry desk and settle in his leather-clad chair before either one of them said a word.

Alec, as always, sat forward as the three of them began.

"We're looking for this woman." The sandy-haired fellow with the off-putting eyes informed him. "She'd be twenty-three going on twenty-four years-old by now."

The dark-haired man withdrew the now-familiar picture from an inside pocket of his well-tailored suit jacket. With an air of authoritative intensity, he placed the picture, face-up, on his desk. With a single finger he slid the photograph across the polished wood of his desk and onto his blotter.

"We know you're the one who can tell us where she is." The dark-haired one all but dared him to say otherwise.

Alec picked up the picture by its edges, not wanting to transfer any oils from his fingers on to the photo. He'd seen it before, when these two men first showed it to him, but it never failed to make his old, frail, heart swell with fondness. In the picture, a girl cradled an enormous, flat-faced cat in her arms. He could practically feel the love the girl held for her pet as she lavished the furry beast with affection and attention.

He broke their two-week tradition when he chanced a bit of levity with the two…men. He turned the picture around so that it now faced his visitors. "Isn't this supposed to move?"

The odd-eyed one appreciated his effort as well as the change in their repartee and responded with a touch of chagrin. "We had a bit of a time finding one that didn't."

Alec nodded. The tension in the room abated a bit. The dark-haired fellow remained as he was: rigid posture, imposing, and, dare he think, a trifle anxious?

"She's a special one, isn't she?" Alec placed the nearly ten-year old picture back on the desk and slid it back towards the dark-haired man.

"Yes, she is." The sandy-haired one took back the picture and carefully tucked it away.

"I have something for you." Alec opened the top left-hand drawer of his desk. He lifted out a folded tri-paned picture-frame. He pried apart the leaves and smiled at the images protected by wood and glass.

"I've known her since she was a girl. So unlike her mother, but perhaps a better person, if that's possible. As a young girl, her mother, Charlotte Jane, was quite the scamp!" The memories of a girl as she grew into her womanhood, and then that woman raising a daughter of her own, welled within him.

"I put this together for you two last night. It's yours to keep." He passed the framed pictures to the dark-haired man. For some reason, Alec felt like the man with the 'old eyes' needed to see the woman the girl had become more urgently than his companion. "The middle one was taken when she graduated University; double major in International Relations and Political Science from Stanford. Not the same as if she graduated from Oxford or Cambridge, mind you." He glossed over the fact that the reason why she didn't attend either of those prestigious universities and had 'settled' for a school beneath her had everything to do with the 'what' the two men represented. "But still, impressive nonetheless, given – Americans call it a 'GPA' – the scores she earned and extraordinary quality of the work she accomplished. Her final papers… I don't use this term lightly nor with exaggeration, they were revolutionary."

Without looking at one another, both men mirrored the same unique expression of regret, dismay and pride at hearing about her accomplishments.

He didn't need to see the pictures know the moments showcased in digital color. "The one on the right, that's a favorite of mine."

"There's a man, on his knees in front of her, signing her t-shirt." The sandy-haired fellow had leaned over his companion's shoulder to look at the picture, the cause of the darker one's disdainful tone.

"I wasn't there, _per_ _se_. But, I did hear it 'from the horse's mouth', so to speak." Alec chuckled at the memory. The story was a good one and well worth repeating. "It was her twenty-first birthday but because of her school schedule, they had to celebrate in early August instead of mid-September. She and her friends decided on Amsterdam for the weekend. Sauced to their gills, the whole crew of them searched the city for an all-night diner for a proper fry-up at three o'clock in the morning!" He chortled. He grinned broadly. "By the time they left the eatery, must've been near to six by that time, she had amassed nearly two-hundred signatures on her 'Save Ferris' t-shirt since dinner the previous night! Everyone who saw that shirt wanted that shirt. When she explained that it had been a gift – given tongue-in-cheek by her parents – and wouldn't be parted from it, they all opted to sign it instead. From what I've been made to understand, she had the shirt framed and it hangs in her flat!"

A shared look of confusion colored the other men's faces.

Alec's smile widened. "Given what she does for a living, you've got to appreciate the wittiness behind such a gift!" He rarely had the opportunity to explain an amusing moment in pop-culture. "A popular American movie, set in the mid-eighties; complete play on the Peter Pan syndrome but utterly enjoyable."

There was, of course, a deeper meaning behind the gift: that sometimes, it was 'okay' to 'ditch school' and regress to a simpler, happier, more care-free existence, even if was for a little while. That was the real reason why the picture was so special to Alec. For the span of those two days, his all-but-adopted grand-niece was just another almost-twenty-one year old celebrating an early birthday in a manner she hadn't been able to in a very long time.

The way she cradled her flushed face in her palm as some unknown man kneeled in front of her and scrawled his name across the fabric of her long-sleeved shirt proved to him that, despite everything she'd gone through, she knew there was a kernel of truth in Ferris Bueller's motto: 'life moves pretty fast sometimes; if you don't stop and look around once and a while, you might just miss something'.

"She looks so sad in this last picture; why?" The sandy-haired fellow ghosted his thumb over the pane that held that particular print.

"Not sad, gentlemen. Moved. That was a very personal moment for her." Alec nodded sagely, his earlier mirth evolved into personal reflection. He was well aware of what happened eight minutes after that particular moment was captured on film. He always felt the same mixture of complex emotions when he first touched the hand of someone who'd only been, up until that moment of initial greeting, a picture paper-clipped to a Prisoner of Conscience dossier. "That picture was taken fourteen months after she left your world. She was just about to meet the first person she had a direct hand in liberating."

The picture wasn't aesthetic. The universal symbol for 'Hospital' indicated that she stood on a helicopter pad at some nondescript medical center. Around her stood half-a-dozen other people of various nationalities, each dressed in similar weather-wise attire. Drops of rain beaded on her trench coat and dotted her bared head. Her expressive eyes were large and round and a reddish tinge colored the underside of her nose and stained her lips. Her chin held a hint of tremble. Her gaze was fixated on a blurry oblong shape that hovered over a generic city skyline.

"She's one of the few women who look more beautiful the more emotional she becomes."

Alec was surprised to hear such a thing from the dark-haired man. "You sound like you're speaking from experience, good sir."

"I am."

The dark one's enigmatic response was all the man was going to say on the matter.

Alec grimaced when he shifted. His knees always ached when it was about to rain. And when he was anxious. Also, he was tired of mentally referring to the two men by their hair-color.

"What shall I call you, gentlemen? Two weeks is long enough to go without using each other's names, don't you think?"

Alec had long determined that the two men weren't necessarily 'friends'; there was a certain discernible undercurrent of subtly acknowledged animosity between the two men. They did, however, share a certain level of trust and were clearly united in a common cause that had everything to do with the young woman in the photographs. It was refreshing to witness that they had the good grace not to whisper amongst themselves as the two men seemed to hold a silent conversation.

The sandy-haired fellow turned away from his companion and answered his question. "John."

The dark-haired one all but growled, "Tobias."

Pleased with the progress they had made, Alec pressed a button on his desk-phone and spoke into the intercom. "Missus Lofgren, could you please bring tea for three to the study and cancel all my appointments for today?"

That done, he nodded to John and Tobias. "You both know who I am, but please – call me Alec."

"Does this usually work for you?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Tobias." Alec frowned. Not that he was surprised that the darker one launched a bit of an offensive; his friend John had pressured him into revealing his name so of course Tobias was going to vent that frustration.

"This whole 'doting uncle-altruistic mentor' you're attempting to sell." Tobias sneered with his eyes and his mouth. "Believe us when we say that we're well-experienced with your type of… _modus_ _operandi_."

Alec could feel the scorn aimed at him. He glanced at John. The other man made no move to apologize for his companion's unfounded allegation.

Alec mentally girded himself and decided it was time to set these two men straight – in regards to the girl and himself. He summoned his 'let's free who's next on the list' persona; it still suited him.

"You both came to my house, uninvited, and have harassed me. I have been nothing but cordial and considerate, even though you want to take from me, and from everyone who knows and cares about her, a woman who has the capacity to – literally – change our world. We got her back when you all drove her from yours. What right do you have to expect anything but contempt and suspicion from me? But what did you get? Compassion, consideration, and, in the dark, when sleep evades an old man such as myself, commiseration. And still, you sit there, and accuse me of playing false?

"When she first came to me, asking for a job, I refused to hire her." He grew indignant at the skepticism the two men displayed. "That's right – I told her, 'no'. I sat across from her in that lovely little café in Seville and I told her that she had to go to school, earn her degree, and to use her time at University to acclimate to our world. She then asked me what AI was going to focus on during the next five years. I told her the truth: women's rights, abolition of the death penalty, child soldiers, torture, and continuing the pursuit of freeing the wrongfully imprisoned."

The two men became grim as the he listed the 'spotlight' projects Amnesty International had added to the organization's commitment to uphold its mission statement.

"She nodded, kissed my cheek, and left me and Spain. Next thing I know, I receive a copy of her class and Stanford University's school schedule and a note that informs me that even if she has to buy the plane tickets herself, she can – and would – go anywhere at any time. She wrote the same missive to me in six different languages!" He gestured to a massive credenza, where the note now resided. "I am not a stupid man, gentleman. Talent, commitment and drive she possesses in spades. But I'd be remiss if I didn't give her a chance to explore other options. That's why I made it clear to her that her first 'assignment' was to complete her first year of university. At the end of the school year, we met at the same café in Seville and talked again. She listened to my arguments with closed ears. Once I stopped to take a breath, she bluntly and none-to-gently asked if Amnesty International had changed their spotlight projects. I told her the truth: the same issues I mentioned the year before had only gained momentum in the past twelve months since she fled England."

He scowled at each of the men, the only emissaries he could hold accountable for what had happened to her. Neither John nor Tobias flinched at his stare.

"She listed how someone like her, a researcher extraordinaire, could only be an asset to Amnesty International. How she had a decided advantage over other applicants as she was a 'name without a face' that could travel with a certain level of 'acknowledged anonymity'. And, if we – being me – couldn't acquire a diplomatic passport with her new name and picture on it, then she knew someone who could. She then informed me, though she couldn't work from England or risk setting so much as a toe on British soil, hence the reason why we always met in Spain, she expected to see her name on the next roll-call when the Executive Committee next convened."

His intercom buzzed. He ignored it. Whatever Lofgren needed, it could wait until he finished.

He seized the opportunity the momentary distraction provided to switch from careful reminiscing to the true heart of the matter that existed between the three of them.

"Tell me why you're here. Tell me why I shouldn't throw the both of you out on your ears," Alec challenged them. "Tell me why you think you should even stand in the same room as her?"

"Because we need her more than you do."

Tobias' absolute honestly spoke to Alec's soul. He found that he completely agreed with the nominally – pleasant? – man. A sense of defeat, of the looming sense that he was going to lose his favorite all-but-blood grand-niece for a second time robbed his disease-ridden heart of lightness.

"Please – tell us where she is. Let us present ourselves to her, make our case," John implored.

He couldn't say he didn't see this day coming, when 'they' would come for her. He just wished it hadn't happened so soon. He didn't like the idea of living out his remaining days without her in his life.

His intercom buzzed again. Again he ignored it.

"I can't tell you that."

"Can't or won't?"

Tobias' sneer was back in full effect. Again, Alec understood why the dark man behaved the way he did, it didn't mean that he liked the emotional yo-yoing the man practiced.

"Can't."

John, though, attempted to understand. A moment later, insight flared bright and true. "You don't know where she is."

Alec allowed a bit of smug pride to surface. "You two didn't really think it would be that easy, do you? That there wouldn't be a back-up plan?"

John nodded. Tobias sighed irritably. "No, we didn't. Hoped? Yes. But not even you can't tell us what you don't know."

An urgent knocking broke the stalemate. A middle-aged prematurely gray-haired woman strode into the study. Good manners sent all three men to their feet when Lofgren entered the room.

Alec was surprised at the normally unflappable housekeeper's dramatics. "Lofgren, what the-"

"The phone, Sir. You've got a phone call."

Alec understood what she'd said, but it didn't make any sense. "My phone hasn't rung all morning."

She harrumphed. Then, she plunged her left hand into the pocket of her apron. "Not your desk phone, Sir." She withdrew his satellite phone and passed it to him. "The other phone!"

Alec ignored his uninvited guests and triggered the 'talk' feature on the device. "This is Alec Digges."

All Alec could hear was static.

He looked at his visitors, who were suddenly speaking amongst themselves.

Two seconds later, a wrinkly, greyish-brown skinned…_being_…with ears like a cross between a donkey and a bat and wearing something akin to two lace doilies sewn together as an attempt at modesty, materialized on his Turkish rug. He wrenched his gaze away from the…creature's…tennis-ball like eyes, and focused on trying to filter out the static.

The creature then disappeared and reappeared. The whole thing took less than sixty seconds. The…whatever it was…passed John and Tobias each two leather bands and a matching belt. Of which they donned quickly.

John mouthed the words, "magical dampeners," as an explanation for why the being was summoned and what it subsequently delivered.

The static evaporated. In its stead was an anxious sounding woman pleading with him to answer.

"Ujka Alek – Dzejmi je –"

"English, Jamie."

"Right. Sorry." A car's horn and the squealing of over-taxed brakes punctuated her two words.

"Where are you?"

"Loubomo."

The sharp looks John and Tobias exchanged were an unnecessary distraction. For their benefit, he pointed to the oversized world map that dominated the left wall of his study. "The Congo?"

"Kostas and I need you to find someone to clear a path for us across the Gabon border."

"Who's after you?" He asked that question for two reasons: the first was to give John and Tobias a sense of context, the second was so that he knew who he couldn't contact.

"General Wheton's conscription brigade."

"Which one?"

This time, it was a male with a heavy Slavic accent that answered his question. "All of them."

If Alec swore, he'd do it now. As it was, context was only making the two men more anxious. Especially John. Alec watched, mesmerized, as the amber ring in the man's eyes expanded. Static once again drowned out whatever it was that Kostas what trying to relay.

"Calm yourself!" Tobias clamped an arm onto John's shoulder, garnering John's attention. John, by way of an answer, nodded his head.

Alec actually felt more trepidatious when the amber ring receded a bit.

He pulled the phone away from his mouth and ear as he spoke to the two wizards. "Wheton is a ruthless modern-day warlord who rips children, as young as five-years old, away from their families and school rooms and forces them to become soldiers in his army. Jamie was supposed to be in Johannesburg, attending a consortium," he situated the phone back to his ear and mouth, "and not hundreds of miles north of the Cape of Good Hope!"

"I have the proof, Uncle Alec."

That almost made the strain on his heart worth it. General Wheton was someone who had, up until now, dodged criminal and humanitarian charges due to lack of evidence. For more than a year now, Jamie had waged a personal vendetta against the man. Alec shouldn't have been surprised that she got the proof AI needed to file formal charges against the General and his lieutenants.

"I'll leave it to Kostas to flay you within an inch of your life when you get home."

The sound of a car crashing into another car sent his blood pressure rising even higher. He felt sweat bead on his forehead and trickle down his back. Surprisingly, it was Tobias that pressed a fine linen handkerchief into his hand. Of which he immediately used to pat his brow.

"What do you need, Jamie?"

"If we make it to the Gabon border, two tickets on the first cruise ship embarking out of Libreville. Portugal would be best, but Morocco or Ghana would work just as well. We'll take the Canary Islands or the Azores, if need be."

The genius in her escape plan was its simplicity. "Damn good idea. The long-arm of General Wheton would extend to the airports, bus depots, and commercial shipping piers. The two of you boarding a cruise ship… They'd be hard pressed to find you in the crush."

"We have to get there first, Uncle Alec."

Typical Jamie – her understatements always conveyed just how dire her needs were.

"I understand. How far out are you?"

"One-hundred-twelve miles to the border. Add at least fifty to get us to Libreville."

He had calls to make. He couldn't do that with her on the phone. Necessity dictated that he'd have to call her back. "Understood."

He pressed the 'end' button on the phone. He didn't set it down. It was as if he could maintain a connection with the young woman through time and distance if he just didn't let go of the phone.

"What do you need?" John, eyes relatively normal, stood in front of the grand map.

Alec capitalized on John's offer to help. If anything, talking about the logistical problem aloud could very well spark inspiration as to how best to rescue Kostas and Jamie.

He pointed at the west coast of central Africa. His finger rested on a small dot. "They're here." The index finger of his other hand pointed to where Gabon and Congo shared a border. "This where they need to get to." He then slid the same finger to the northwest. "This is Libreville." He knew the scale to which the map was drawn. Jamie was right about the distance between where she was and where she needed to be. He translated the distance into time. "Assuming they have enough petrol, and given the way Kostas drives-"

"Who's Kostas?" Tobias asked.

Instinctively, Alec knew that the dark man asked as a way to ascertain the value of an 'asset'.

"Kostadin Dakova is her bodyguard. Bulgarian parents relocated to Serbia when he was a lad. Some sports injury sank his career as some professional athlete; he refuses to talk about it at all – to anyone. He's one-hundred percent committed to Jamie." For some reason, he felt the need to make sure that the two men knew that Jamie and Kostas were a matched-set. "I can't rescue one and not the other."

"You have little more than hour, then?" John surmised.

Alec nodded. He dragged a shaky hand across his chin. "Jamie was right to a call me. Out of everyone, my contacts in that part of the world are among the most viable."

Tobias studied the map. His hands were clasped behind his back. He immediately identified the 'fly in the ointment'. "The problem is the remoteness of their location. Even if you were to mobilize someone within the next twenty minutes, there's no way they'd get there in time."

Alec refused to give in, despite the long odds that faced them. He straightened as much as his osteoporosis allowed. "Every problem has a solution. I just need to find it."

"Time is no one's friend, Mister Digges." Tobias intoned. He then spun on his heels and called out, "Jumpy!"

Nothing happened.

John tugged on his shirtsleeves, calling attention to the cuffs on their wrists. "Dampeners, remember?"

Tobias' expletive made Alec's ears literally burn. The tall man wrenched off his leather bands and the belt he cinched around his waist. Then he tried again. "Jumpy!"

The bizarre creature again materialized. "Yes, Sirs?"

"Where are your Masters?"

"Master Draco is at the Ministry in-session with Master Lucius and Master Harry didn't tell Jumpy where he went when he left last night."

"Longbottom?"

"He be at home, Sir, with his Lady wife. The Dowager Augusta be's not well."

"Sev-" John corrected himself in mid-syllable. "Tobias – it doesn't matter who goes; it's a point-and-grab. We're only going to summon the Obliviators once we get those two Muggles to safety. "

"You're correct." Tobias nodded.

"Why are you doing this?" Alec needed to know. "You don't even know who this girl is."

Tobias answered for both himself and John. "My magic is telling me that this woman, this Jamie, who is obviously very important to you, is a mile-marker on our road to earn Hermione Jane."

He turned to Jumpy. "Go to Malfoy Manor. The first two bodies you see, bring them here."

Alec watched, nearly slack-jawed, as the little creature faded from sight.

Hope once again chased the strain off of his heart.

:

:

They were out of the city. There was only one road that connected the outskirts of Loubomo to Gabon. The pick-up truck in their rear-view mirror was little more than a distant dust cloud.

Jamie leaned over the stick-shift and peered through the steering wheel. She didn't like what the fuel gauge read.

"Alec said that two people are going to meet us just before the Gabon border." She twisted in her seat and squinted at the back window. A wicked smirky-smile spread across her face.

Kostas never liked what followed that particular smile.

He liked it even less when she unclipped her seat belt and shrugged out of her loose over-shirt. She tucked the hem of her long-sleeved tee-shirt into the waist band of her cargo slacks. She quickly touched her hair, confirming the fact that all of it was hoisted into a high ponytail. If he didn't need both hands to drive, he would've handcuffed her to the dashboard as she started to crank down her window.

"Vat do vou think vou doing?!"

Eyes on her, he didn't see the large pot-hole that nearly popped their tires upon impact until they had already bounced through it. The smell of hot motor oil and spilled windshield washer fluid filled the cabin of the Range Rover.

"We have twenty kilometers to go and just under a quarter of a tank of petrol." As if that explained what she was thinking. "'Plan B' just needs a helping hand, Kostas. That's all."

But, given the fact that this was Jamie, it kind of did. He just had to think like she thought.

Her pushing herself to the backseat was a precursor to her slinging one leg, one arm, and half her bum over one side of the ledge of the now-opened rear-passenger window. Her head, her other arm, and one leg were still inside the vehicle when she filled him in on her plan. "It shouldn't take me long to top-off the tank. Keep the car straight as much as possible. If there's a dip in the road that we can't avoid, hit the horn so I'll know to hold on."

He was going to kill her with his bare hands once she got back inside the car. But she was right. Damn it to each and every one of the seven hells, she was right. The twin fuel cans – acquired from some Americans out on 'safari' in exchange for beef jerky and rechargeable batteries – strapped to the back of the SUV each contained five gallons of fuel. Mentally converting gallons to liters, and then applying the resulting liters to the remaining kilometers between where they were and where they needed to be, if Jamie managed to tip the contents of just one of those cans into the gas tank, they'd definitely make it to the border.

He switched the angle of the rear-view mirror so that he could keep half-an-eye on her progress.

The oversized vehicle had running boards between each wheel-well. Each wheel-well had a narrow lip, so that operators could reach the roof rack from almost any point along the perimeter. It was on this lip that Jamie found a footing. He watched as she minced her way down the length of the SUV. He held his breath when one of her hands slipped as she transitioned from the rear wheel-well to the back bumper. One-handed, she pulled herself back into position and was able to grab, with both hands, the rear edge of the roof-rack. That done, it was only a moment before she unhitched one of the fuel cans and tugged it free of its anchors.

Kostas knew exactly how much five gallons weighed. He also knew just how slight Jamie's build was. The woman was religious about maintaining her fitness, but she didn't weigh more than nine, maybe nine-and-a-half – if she was soaking wet – stones.

She slipped the top of the can into one of her deeper pockets. With an effort, she began to back track. The fuel tank was where her hand had slipped.

Awkwardly, given her placement, she wrenched open the tank cover.

That's when Kostas sounded the horn.

There was no way she could hear him, but he shouted to her anyway.

"Hold on!"

The trough was deep and wide. He had a split second to decide to go over it or around it.

Cursing the state of third-world economies, shoddy infrastructure, and single-minded warlords, he aimed for the shoulder of the road.

The SUV fishtailed for several moments as it struggled for traction in the loose dirt. Kostas brought the vehicle back under control and cut back to the road. A quick glance in the rear-view mirror showed that Jamie was still hanging on, and she still had the fuel can! Movement on the needle of the gauge now showed that they now had nearly a full third-of-a-tank.

He wondered why she was frowning. Then he understood. The bright red fuel can had slipped from her hand. He could see it as it cartwheeled out of sight.

Step by step, she inched back towards the front of the car. This time, and none-too-gracefully, she pulled herself back into the SUV. Head first, she slid across the length of the backseat. Adrenaline-high and face flushed, she pushed herself upright. Breathing heavily but clearly enjoying rush from the endorphins racing through her shaking body, she wriggled her way back into the front passenger seat.

Kostas wanted to throttle her where she sat. But, again, the need to have both hands otherwise occupied with actually managing the vehicle scuttled that ire-placating thought. Instead, he made a promise of retribution for scaring the living Serbian out of him.

"You're so getting spanked."

She beamed at his empty threat. "You've never spanked me nor will you ever lay so much as a finger on my backside."

Damn – she was right again. Didn't mean he couldn't put the fear of 'yet to come' into her. "One of these days, when you least expect it, I'm going to put you over my knee. Payback for taking five years off my life."

"For that?" She blithely jutted a thumb towards the still-open window, smirking and well-pleased over what she'd just done. "Believe me when I say: I've done worse for equally valid reasons."

"Yeah, well… The person who writes my cheque will probably dock me something for not stopping you from pulling that latest stunt."

"Who does write your cheque?"

It was something she asked him every so often. One of the main reasons why she agreed to accept his 'services' was because he swore that his salary did not come from AI. Semantics allowed him to lead her to believe that her Uncle Alec underwrote his contract. The same semantics allowed the elderly man to make the same assumption about Jamie. His last day of work would be the day she found out who funneled bi-monthly payments into his Grand Caymans bank account.

However, right now, he knew exactly what she was up to.

"Redirection is not going to be your friend right now, Miss Drayton."

He looked her over from ponytail to boots and back again. All her limbs were still attached. No visible blood stains. She seemed to be favoring her right shoulder and winced every time her right side got jarred by the irregularities in the hard-packed road, but that matched what he figured had happened when her hand slipped and she had to re-establish her grip. All her fingers functioned. Something was off. He did a mental inventory of the woman he'd seen every day for the past three years.

"You lost your bracelets."

"Only one of them." Her left hand dove into one of her pockets. She pulled out the well-worn two-inch wide circle of leather and her close-fitting necklace of braided leather cords. Tiny characters too small to decipher were etched into the cured strips of animal hide. The bracelet she deftly lashed back onto her wrist. She had a bit of trouble re-knotting her necklace.

"They were a set… a gift." She angled her neck, as she struggled to secure the hastily severed ends of her choker. "I suppose you could call them that. I needed them and someone made them for me." A remorseful look crossed her face. "I've had them a long time. But it couldn't be helped. It was either the bracelet or the petrol. The petrol was more important."

Kostas understood. The items he valued most could never be appraised.

Jamie wasn't the only one who excelled at re-direction.

"Our friends are still back there."

She reached up and adjusted the mirror so that she could see out the back window. The distant dust cloud was much closer than before her little field trip.

"I told you not to slow down!"

"I told you not to tell me how to drive!"

She narrowed her eyes, but didn't contradict him.

"More than likely, they have a more powerful engine. That's why they're catching up to us despite the fact that they're carrying five people and we're only two." Kostas took his hypothesis and applied it to their end-game. "At least one of them is carrying a rifle. When we see who ever it is that Alec drummed up, we're going to have to move fast."

"I understand."

He knew she did. One of the many things that impressed him about her was her ability to see a situation for what it was and not over-exaggerate or underestimate it.

A road sign appeared on their right.

Ten kilometers to Gabon.

Eight kilometers to their rendezvous.

"Five minutes, Jamie."

She nodded. In a flash, she scrambled out of her seat and made for the back of the car. Two minutes later, their supply duffle bag lay across her lap and the tranq gun was nestled in her palm. She pulled apart the zipper of the bag and slid the satellite phone into the three feet of well-packed royal-blue nylon. While the bag was open, she passed him his automatic hand-gun and two spare clips.

She didn't flinch when he flipped the safety and verified that there was a round in the chamber; she simply held the steering wheel as he readied his weapon. He reset the safety and tucked the barrel into the waistband of his denims.

"They're getting closer, Kostas." Jamie winced as she once more faced-front after visually verifying their pursuers.

"One minute."

:

:

He didn't see anyone.

"Where are they?"

Kostas peered through the windshield. Despite the speed of the SUV, he was sure he hadn't passed anyone.

At the precise co-ordinates that Alec specified, Kostas jammed one foot on the clutch and the other on the brake. One hand quickly changed down a gear and his other wrestled for control as the vehicle skidded to a stop amidst a plume of grit and dust. He saw no point in ruining the transmission gear box if they needed to make another mad dash.

Both he and Jamie kicked open their doors. He ran for the back of the Range Rover while Jamie sprinted to the front of the vehicle to look for their rescue party. He ignored the sand that settled inside his nose and blinked away the fine particles that irritated his eyes.

What he saw when his vision cleared made him smile with grim determination.

The pick-up truck was a lot closer than the rear-view mirror suggested. He could see the glow of the headlights despite the overhead sun and the outline of the driver and his passenger. He could make out the shape of the men who stood behind the cab. In a few more seconds, he'd be able to discern the make and model of the weapons they carried.

He reached for his hand gun and brought it up. One hand stacked on top of the other, he leveled his arm. He caressed the trigger with the pad of his finger.

"Jamie!"

"I don't see anyone, Kostas!"

Good. She was still searching the area in front of the Range Rover. She'd be safer there. "Stay vhere vou are. Don't come back here."

He doubted that she even registered that they were speaking English to one another. Then again, maybe she did. She was pretty observant in that regard.

There was no way he was going to let those cradle-robbing bastards take her.

Time to earn his paycheck.

He breathed in. With his exhale, he fired.

The report never made him blink.

He missed the driver, but hit the passenger.

He took aim once more.

He never fired a second shot.

Three sizable male bodies suddenly materialized in the middle of the road.

One of them aimed a wand at the front wheels of the trucked and shouted, "_Bombarda_!"

Kostas missed what the second new-arrival said. All he could see was a wall of opaque blue that curved over the five of them and the Range Rover as pieces of the demolished truck rained down around them. The three of their pursuers were pinned underneath the smoking wreckage. The other two had fallen haphazardly when the truck exploded.

The third new-arrival arched his back suddenly, as if he'd been shot, and fell backwards. He landed hard, but Kostas doubted he felt the impact as he was out cold.

The man had been shot, just not by one of General Wheton's men.

Jamie. Jamie with her tranq gun. The tranq gun they used to ward off animals that strayed too close to their campfires or nosed around their observation blinds.

She had already reloaded and was ready to fire.

"Whoa! Whoa! Wait a minute! Don't shoot!"

The first one held up his arms in the universal sign of 'we come in peace'. He must've been the one holding the shield because the protective barrier cut-out the instant he bent his arms at the elbow.

Jamie's eyes were wide and filling with panic.

Her arm jerked between the two men. The only reason why Kostas hadn't taken them out was because they were wizards who'd just saved their lives. If they proved to be as hostile as Jamie was making them out to be, then he could always take them out himself. He might've lost his magic, but he was more than confident that his muggle-learned skills would be more than a match even if he was outnumbered.

She decided that right then was the moment to even the odds to his favor.

She fired at the tall dark-skinned man who begged them not to shoot. He dodged to the left, out of the path of the on-coming dart.

She never saw the other fellow, a lithely muscled chap who looked to be roughly his age, whip his wand arm around and fire off a _Stupify_.

Jamie hurtled backwards. The upper part of her body, including her head, collided with the back of the steel-framed SUV. Unconscious, she crumpled face-first to the ground.

The wand-happy wizard was aghast. "I didn't hit her that hard! I only meant to knock her out of the way – not knock her out-cold!"

"Damn it, Adrian!" The first man cursed at his mate. "Look out for the Muggle!"

Kostas felt his temper ignite. He'd been operating on adrenaline since Jamie had first come running up to him, telling him she got the pictures they needed but that Wheton's men had seen her as she crept out of their camp. Ninety seconds ago, he put himself between her and her death, only to have the very people sent to save them hurt her!

He strode up to the one called Adrian. Without breaking his stride, he pulled back his right arm and with all the power that resided in his shoulder, back and chest, buried his fist in the soft tissue just above the man's kidney. Adrian fell to his knees, but had enough sense to sweep one of his arms out and knock Kostas to the ground.

Seeing Jamie's tousled hair spread across the dirt from his prone position reset Kostas' priorities.

Hands in front of knees, he rapidly crawled over to her. He pressed two fingers to the side of her neck. He had to wait several seconds before he could differentiate between his heartbeat and hers.

She had a pulse. She needed medical attention, but she lived.

He tilted his gaze to the dark-skinned man, the youngest of the three, who was still standing. "I don't know vho vou are, but the only reason vhy vou're still breathing is because she's still breathing."

The man who was going to be pissing blood for the next week groaned. Not in pain, but in recognition that their rescue mission just became a whole lot more complicated.

"I didn't mean to hurt her, Blaise! All I saw was the gun and Nimrod here, slumping to the ground."

"That nimrod is also your best friend, Pucey."

"Marcus Flint was born a nimrod and remains, to this day, a nimrod."

"True." Blaise nodded in agreement. "Equally true is the fact that he's going to turn your arse, and only your arse, into an ottoman and make you walk on all-fours when he finds out what you said about him." He then cracked a smile. "But wait until everyone finds out that he was taken out by a Muggle. A female Muggle, at that!"

Kostas interrupted their bantering. "Can either von of vou cast a diagnostic? Vy need to know if she can be moved."

Adrian pushed himself to his feet. He limped to girl, the pain emanating from his side made him groan with every step he took.

It was Blaise who murmured the requisite spell. He definitely didn't like the results. "She needs help. There's some internal damage; a slow leak from where a bone chip nicked a secondary vein. We can move her, but carefully."

Gingerly, Kostas rolled her onto her back. Her petite frame was soon supported by his arms.

While he gathered Jamie, Blaise stepped over to the unconscious third member of their party and dropped a mitten onto the man. A pulse of blue magic later and the nimrod was gone.

"It's either Portkey or Side-Along, my friend. You pummeled Adrian, so you get to pick." Blaise offered Kostas his arm or the mate to the mitten that was used on Flint.

:

:

Remus Lupin had all he could do not to pace the length of Alec Digges' sizable study as they waited for any kind of word from the hastily formed rescue party.

Severus, in all his rigidness, stood rooted in front of the over-sized world map, as if to mentally will events to play out in their favor.

As for Alec, the old man looked positively peaked. Lofgren had served tea, but no one partook.

For lack of anything to do, Remus sidled up to Severus. "So, Tobias…"

"Yes, _John_." The smirk Severus sent his way lacked sufficient malice to cause Moony to take exception.

"It's been more than five years. Are you ever going to remove that glamour?"

"I don't know to what you're referring."

Remus waved his hand in front of Severus' prodigious nose. A ring of fire-whisky gold appeared between the black of his pupils and the blackest-brown of his irises. A second wave of his hand reset the glamour.

"Of course you don't." Remus didn't know whether to sigh at the man's unnecessary secrecy or attempt to good-naturedly needle the Potion Master. He settled on the truth, with a dash of nonchalance. "It took a couple of years, but eventually Moony figured out that she saved you, too."

Severus turned his head towards their hosts. Lofgren was still hovering over Digges; neither one was paying them a lick of attention.

"What she did or did not do for me will not be repeated, Lupin."

"Likewise," Remus concurred. No one was ever going to know what happened between him and his cub. He could though, say this: "When she came to me, she told me that when Voldemort was defeated, Harry would need me more than I would need my reunion with Sirius, Lily and James."

Several heartbeats later, the tall taciturn man spoke. This time, so quietly that it took Moony's sharpened senses to make out his words. "She prefaced our time together by stating that Dumbledore had no right to sentence me to death."

"She was right, Severus."

Only Severus Snape could hang his head while at the same time his chin and shoulders remained squared.

"It took me a long time to accept that, Remus."

A sudden commotion broke their show-and-tell moment.

"What the blazes!"

Severus's voice reverted to his normal volume when Marcus Flint's unconscious form appeared.

Before either one of them could begin assessing the man, Missus Lofgren fainted. Digges kept her from hitting the floor and step-dragged her to his chair as three more shapes materialized.

Flint was ignored in lieu of the call for help from the man who carried a woman in his arms.

"Zabini – what in the name of the seven hell's happened!" Severus demanded to be answered.

Just then, Adrian Pucey spun into being. Forgoing any greetings or salutations, he lowered himself into the nearest chair.

"And you – Pucey – explain yourself!"

Moony's nose picked up a scent he hadn't smelled in a long time.

It was coming from the woman the unknown man was gently laying on Alec's settee.

Without apology, Moony propelled Remus to the couch and rudely brushed the mystery man aside. He knelt down next to her, and ever so reverently, finger-combed her hair off of her face.

"Severus – come here!"

A perfectly tailored four-button suit jacket layered over a closely-fitted cashmere turtleneck didn't billow like a cloak, but Severus made a sincere effort to make it do so. He was nearly to Remus' shoulder when he whirled about and fixed his gaze on Blaise Zabini.

"Is she hurt?"

Blaise nodded, albeit confused over the fuss the two older men were making over a Muggle. "She's got a slow leak and a mild concussion. The blood loss isn't life-threatening nor is there any indication of a haematoma, but she needs treatment. Also, there's a hairline fracture to one of her ribs and her rotator cuff has been torn. But that wasn't from us. She should've woken up by now." Blaise clearly felt the need to explain himself and to only take responsibility for what happened while he was his team's leader. "Someone's got to go back and Obliviate any Muggle mercenaries who may have survived," he insisted.

'Flint was your Obliviator!" Severus 'reminded' Zabini why Marcus had been sent along in the first place.

"Well tell that to her!" Zabini snapped, annoyed that he was being treated like an absent-minded thirteen year-old.

"She took out someone as big as Flint?" Remus all but smiled.

"She knows, in a fight, if vou don't know vho is leader, vou take out the biggest." The yet-to-be-identified man justified why she targeted Flint first and the other two wizards second.

"And then I _Stupified_ her, but I must've put a bit too much power behind my spell. She hit the back of their mechanical thingy-magiggy and was out-cold. Next thing I know, Sasquatch here," Adrian indicated that the tall, burly, long-haired man, who stood protectively by the girl's head, had earned himself a Pucey-nickname, "drills his fist into me and then asks if one of us knows how to do a diagnostic spell."

"That's how you know what's wrong with her," Remus murmured. Movement on the edge of his periphery brought Mister Digges and his recovered housekeeper back into the conversation. "An ambulance will not be necessary, Alec. Please tell Missus Lofgren that she can put down the phone."

"We can heal her," Severus assured the humanitarian. His black gaze flicked to Sasquatch. "You are a Squib?"

"_Da_. Spell damage, nine years ago." The tall, broad man wasn't ashamed of what happened to him. "Kostadin Hristo Dakova. Bodyguard and friend, three years now." He motioned to where Adrian Pucey had yet to rise from the chair he'd claimed. "That von, he's not damaged permanently. If she doesn't vake, ve vill have second…_conversation_… in private."

Pucey's only response to Kostadin's promise was to blithely wave his hand in the air, as if Kostadin was talking out of his arse.

Remus stood so that Severus could verify for himself the woman's medical condition.

While Severus muttered consecutive Revealing spells, Remus rallied the troops.

"Adrian, take yourself and Flint, and get yourselves checked out. Once he wakes up, go somewhere where the two of you can drink heavily and patch your egos."

"That's not going to happen." Adrian shook his head and spoke for himself and his unconscious best friend. "Where you go, we go. We can drink where ever we land."

"I'm not leaving her." Kostadin crossed his arms over his chest and spread his legs shoulder-width apart. His handsome Slavic features were emphasized by his conviction that he didn't trust any of the wizards.

"I never said you would be." Moony could have popped the Serbian like a soap bubble, but Remus had control. "You're coming with us and you're going to make sure Alec here knows that we're taking good care of her."

The old man's frailty was on display. But his gratitude was strong. "Thank you, John."

Remus nodded. From inside his jacket, he withdrew a long knitted scarf. It was a match for the mittens that had been sent with Blaise. He tapped his wand to the knotted yarn. He draped the scarf so that it touched the four of them: Kostas, Severus, the girl, and himself.

'What about me?"

It was Severus, with his arms full of injured female that told Blaise Zabini what his immediate future would hold.

"You get to find both Mister Malfoys and Mister Potter and tell them that you nearly killed Miss Granger."

.

* * *

PLEASE - Reveiw!

* * *

SERBIAN TRANSLATIONS:

Kostas, vozi brže! : Drive faster, Kostas!

Pazi! Gledaj kuda vozis! Gledaj kuda vozis! : Watch Out! Eyes on the road! Eyes on the road!

Vidim!: I see it!

Sta sam ti rekao? : What did I tell you?

Jesi osetile to? Mislim da se jedeh od tolkova podigao! : Did you feel that? I think one of our wheels lifted off the ground.

Ja tebi ne govorim kako da vozis a ti mehi ne govori kako da brjem hoge : I don't tell you how to drive and you don't tell me how to shave my legs.

Upravo : Exactly

Kouico još? : How much further?

Još sto pedeset miga do Gabonske granice : There's a hundred and fifteen miles to the Gabon border.

Ubice nas ako ostanemo ovde : We're going to get killed if we stay out here.

Drzi se! : Hold on tight!

Kao da vei nedreim rucku sue vrene! : Like I haven't stopped holding on!

O, Bože! : Oh, God!

Ujka Alek – dzejmi je : Uncle Alec, it's Jamie. I need you to…


	4. Chapter 4

**To Earn Hermione Jane**

Summary:

In the wake of the final battle against Voldemort, Hermione Granger left the Wizarding world.

Five days later, two men - life-long enemies - realized why they had such a bitter rivalry and that she was one witch they can't - and won't - live without.

Now, Harry and Draco have seven years to:

1. Find her

2. Woo her

3. Woo each other

4. Settle the past

5. Facilitate a future for the three of them within the Wizarding world

If they fail, they'll succumb to the Black Family Curse, a Curse that destroyed Bellatrix and nearly claimed a teen-aged Sirius: sociopathic madness

If they succeed, Harry, Draco and Hermione - together - will have the kind of love, and lives, that'll inspire bards and composers for generations.

The clock started ticking ten days ago... and they have no idea where to start

* * *

Many and grateful thanks to Severus' Malfoy Maiden ( www . fanfiction u / 2042569 / - eliminate the spaces after cutting-and-pasting) for her wonderful beta'ing.

* * *

**Chapter** **4**:

* * *

.

Alec Digges' Study

Cornwall

:

Kostas knew he was a fairly sharp fellow.

A first-string Beater who flew competitively with Viktor Krum, his bright Quidditch career ended when he dueled a Death Eater for an innocent Muggle during the '94 World Cup.

Kostas was cut down with a wave of a wand and string of words that dated back to the time of Gaul.

The Healers at St. Mungos had told his family that the spell damage was invasive and extensive. His survival was deemed to be dubious at best.

Eventually, he recovered. Shortly thereafter, he returned to his hometown in Serbia – via a business-class seat on the EuroRail.

His life came with a price: his magic.

For months, he'd ranted, raved, cursed, and sulked.

It was his friend, Viktor, who was two years younger than Kostas, one of his team-mates, and best friends, who knocked some sense into him.

Viktor took him to a Wizards' graveyard. For hours, they walked in silence among the acres of headstones, mausoleums and burial mounds. Not once was the name Kostadin Hristo Dakova commemorated in marble, granite, quartz, plant, tree, earth or obsidian.

Viktor had made his point.

Kostas had a heartbeat, respiration, unrestricted use of all his extremities, access to all his senses, and his intelligence hadn't been diminished. He wasn't disfigured, stored in an urn, or lying horizontal in a burial berth, a coffin, or a sarcophagus, nor were his charred remains intermingled with the ash from a funeral pyre.

He didn't have access to his magic. He was still alive. At nineteen years of age, his life was far from over.

A Beater plays a pro-active offensive and defensive position. In conjunction with a fellow Beater, he or she works as an individual and as a team to protect his or her team-mates while at the same time he or she devises and implements strategies that keeps the other team at-bay and off-kilter. A Beater has to be aware of all the angles, of all the players, and not only where everyone is, but where they could be given different contingencies.

Those skills were the reason why the profession of providing personal security to Muggles came so naturally to him. Plus, every now and then, his job-description meant that he got paid to hit people.

This, though, what was happening at the moment, was one contingency he'd never considered. Not the fact that the possibility existed that an event could occur where the lines between the Muggle and Wizarding world could be crossed. No. The reason why he needed someone to repeat the fact that Jamie Drayton, his sole client for the past three years, was actually Hermione Granger, the missing Heroine of Hogwarts? He needed verification before he eviscerated one of his best friends.

The dark-haired man, the one they referred to as Severus, _Accio'd_ a handsome platinum fob watch from the front pocket of his coat. Deft fingers pressed the release mechanism and the two halves sprung apart. Instead of announcing the correct time to their assemblage, he spoke to it. A small portrait, barely bigger than what would fit inside an over-sized locket, resided inside the watch.

"Dilys, we have need of you."

A moment lapsed. Then two. Finally, a woman's voice answered his request. "You found her, Severus?"

"For once, a good deed didn't go unrecognized."

Kostas snorted at Severus' dead-panned play on one of Jamie's favorite sayings: no good deed goes unpunished.

"Dilys, we need a room." Lupin leaned over Severus' shoulder, inviting himself into their urgently-spoken conversation. "We can't take her to St. Mungos; the hospital would be inundated within minutes of our arrival. Nor can we risk taking her to the Manor. Minerva would welcome us whole-heartedly, but I doubt Hermione would take to waking up in Hogwarts' infirmary as well as you or I would."

"I completely agree; don't borrow trouble when you don't have to. The last thing we want to do is trigger a back-flash or instigate a panic-attack. The outcome would be disastrous if that were to occur."

"Not to mention that Poppy Pomfrey doesn't deserve to bear the brunt of her considerable temper when she awakens."

It may have been a while since Kostas had seen someone interact with a portrait, but even when he was a magically capable wizard, he found it slightly unnerving to watch someone speak to a piece of jewelry. The verbal short-hand that flowed between the wizards, however, abraded his protective nature.

"Floo, Portkey, or Apparation?"

"Portkey, Dilys. We just need to know where to land."

"The Teak Room is unoccupied. I'll make sure that the wards to the property allow you all passage. In the meantime, her neck and her back need to be kept as still as possible during transport."

Severus tightened his hold on Hermione and pulled her closer to his chest.

"We'll see you when we arrive, Severus."

Kostas followed Lupin's line-of-sight as the sandy-haired wizard relayed their destination to their rescue party. "We're going to the convalescent home. We'll convene there." To Kostas, Lupin justified their decision. "The convalescent home has excellent Healers on-staff. Also, the grounds and oaths taken by the elves and staff will provide her with the privacy she deserves." To Severus, Lupin cracked a wry, slightly wary, lop-sided grin. "Dilys said, 'we'."

Severus had caught the use of that pronoun as well. He all but rolled his eyes, knowing full well that whatever awaited them was going to be at their expense. He closed his watch and slipped it back into his front pocket. "Compared to that witch, Macbeth's hags have rainbows and sunshine in their cauldrons."

Neither Zabini nor Pucey caught Snape's reference, but Kostas did. His chuckle actually earned him a modicum of…acceptance?...from the two older wizards.

Once again, the mitten that initially transported Marcus Flint was once again activated. The man was Portkeyed to the convalescent home.

"Vait!"

Severus, Lupin and Pucey looked at him as well when Kostas stopped the dark-skinned man from Apparating.

"What?" Zabini clearly didn't like being told what to do.

"Vhoever vou send to Obliviate General Vheton's men… Inside the car vee used, not the truck vou blew up, there is bright blue nylon duffle bag. It's important that it's returned to us."

They didn't need to know what was inside, so he didn't tell them. He'd use their curiosity to ensure that they actually brought back the blasted bag.

"Okay." Zabini nodded. "You'll have it. Don't know when, though, but you'll have it."

The gentlest tug to the vicinity just behind his navel, more for Jamie's benefit than for theirs, was all the warning Kostas got before the knitted scarf glowed blue and his surroundings changed.

:

:

Teak Room

Dilys Derwent's Home for the Convalescing Wizard

Berwick-upon-Tweed

Scotland

.

One Side-Along and a Portkey journey in ten minutes made his innards clench and knot. With considerable effort, Kostas was able to breathe through the nausea that challenged his composure. Lupin didn't give any indication that he was similarly affected.

Pucey didn't have the same fortitude. The man shuffled to the en-suite with only seconds to spare before he violently emptied his stomach. Nimrod remained where he was, unconscious and on the floor, oblivious to the world as well as to the events of the past twenty minutes.

Kostas looked around the room. There was no Jamie – _Hermione_, damn it! – or the man who had been carrying her.

He stormed towards a bewildered Lupin. "Vhere is she?!"

"I don't know." Lupin spoke evenly and calmly. His faith in his comrade was absolute. "Severus is the last person who'd let any harm befall her."

"Zhat could mean almost anyfthing." Kostas wasn't about to allow the wizard to underestimate his intelligence. "I am not von vho can be sidetracked by semantics!"

Lupin cocked his head to the side and issued a 'friendly' warning of his own. "If you know what's good for you, you'll back away and out of _Moony's_ personal space."

Kostas stepped back, but not because he was intimidated by the way the man's eyes suddenly became more amber-than-blue. He stepped back so that, if need be, he'd have greater range-of-motion for his arms and legs if he did indeed end up tussling with the newly revealed werewolf.

The arrival of the missing man and the appearance of a house-elf reset the group's equilibrium.

"Had to summon Jumpy. Blasted girl was wearing dampeners!" He slowly lowered himself to one knee and waited while Jumpy replaced the leathers around Jamie's wrist and throat. He visually inspected the elf's work. Satisfied, Severus dismissed the elf with a gruff 'thank you' and pushed himself upright.

With grace and strength, the dark-haired man strode towards the door that separated the lounge from the adjoining bedroom. Jamie – _Hermione_ – was naught but a negligible draw on his stamina. A wriggling of his fingers was the only indication of the wandless magic the man used to open the door.

Kostas was three steps behind him. It was his foot that prevented the door from separating him from Jamie. Despite being a stride behind them, Lupin quickened his pace and reached the bed first. He peeled back the bedclothes and then stepped aside as his contemporary gently laid 'Jamie' onto the smoothly stretched sheets.

Without looking up from what he was doing, Severus settled beside her. His ebony wand was in his hand but it was clear that he was talking about Kostas. "It was your bright idea to bring him here; make him useful, Lupin."

Kostas didn't need to hear the words, 'Or I will', aloud to know that they were spoken nonetheless.

The distant sound of a toilet flushing and water flowing from a tap carried into the room. A moment later, a moderately-recovered Pucey joined them in their vigil.

If any of these three wizards thought that he was going to cower or allow himself to be sidelined because they had use of their magic and he didn't, they were in for a rude awakening.

"Kostadin," the sandy-haired fellow called out to him. The man held the proverbial olive branch.

Kostas made sure his stance asserted his position as Jamie's – _Hermione's_ – protector. He did, though, answer the man with a nod.

"We're not going to hurt her or you. Also, you're important to her, so that makes you important to us."

"How can vou know this?"

"I can smell you on her."

The dark-haired man sighed with exasperation. "Lupin, with all your hand-holding, you are undoubtedly the most Hufflepuffly Gryffindor in the history of Hufflepuff." That said, Severus then looked at the medium-sized picture of a rotund crotchety-looking man dozing in a comfortable-looking chair that was on the nearby teak end table. "Keegan Begley, rouse yourself!"

Judging from the two very different responses – Lupin, bemused, and Snape, exaggerated vexation – Keegan Begley was the 'we' to whom Dilys had alluded.

Kostas was familiar with the use of portraits at bedsides. St. Mungos utilized a similar method for patients to summon help. It was an unobtrusive way to monitor as well as a means to reassure patients that they'd never be truly alone.

The man in the picture sputtered as he awoke. His thick cockney accent made Kostas' teeth itch. "By all that Slytherin holds sacred, Severus! Can't a portrait get a bit of rest?!"

"Your talent for alliteration is only exceeded by your magnanimous disposition, you ornery old goat."

For all the insults exchanged, it was evident that both men held a deep regard for the other.

"Didn't I hoist a glass of sherry in your honor when I saw the back-side of you four years ago?" Keegan squinted at the man who woke him so abruptly. "The year I spent propped between your reading lamp and your water glass-"

"Peace, Begley." Severus waved his hand, calling for a truce. "We need a Healer, one that's experienced in vascular repair, orthopedics, and cranial trauma. A double-strength Calming Draught, enough for three doses, should be brought as well. Dilys' presence would also be much appreciated."

The change in the portrait's demeanor to that of a professional first-responder was instantaneous. Unfortunately, his accent remained as thick as ever. "Expect someone to be with you soon. Anything else I should pass on before I go?"

"The patient is a twenty-three year-old female. Aside from her current injuries, the result of an overly-enthusiastic _Stupify_, she's in relatively good health." Severus advised, "There's some lingering spell-damage from a curse she took seven years ago as well as un-countered Darkness from a Cursed knife on the inside of her left forearm. The Healer should also be aware of the fact that ten years ago she was Petrified and subsequently re-animated via topically applied Mandrake Potion."

"Which curse?" Keegan made a note of everything Severus had relayed and waited expectantly for the final bit of information.

"Unknown. At the time of initial injury, a proper diagnosis never occurred." Severus' narrowed gaze, ram-rod posture, and brevity conveyed his unresolved anger over the matter. "She was treated for the symptoms, not the cause. Madam Pomfrey at Hogwarts has a more complete file, should further information be required. Use my name or Potter's and she'll release any relevant records. Lucius and Draco Malfoy both sit on the school's Board of Governors. If need be, they'll validate her authorization."

"Good to know. I'll pass that along as well."

That was also something Kostas had seen while he was in St. Mungos. Not all Healers were created equal. Some focused on making sure the patient was well-and-truly cured, whereas others perceived patients as unavoidable interruptions that occurred between the start and end of their shifts.

"Don't forget about getting someone to take a look at Marcus," Pucey reminded Severus. "He didn't stir at all when I _Leviosa'ed_ him onto the settee."

At that, Kostas cut into the conversation. "Vour Nimrod vas hit wifth high-potency tranquilizer dart. There's nofthing done for him until he vakes." He preempted Pucey's next question. "Vitch should be in vour-to-seex hours. The Healers can _Ennervate_ him all they vant. The spell von't negate the relaxants."

Severus and Lupin understood what he had said. With nothing added to the original missive pertaining to the woman in the bed, Keegan made to leave. "Expect someone shortly, Severus."

"As always, Keegan, you are the _e_pitome of _e_fficiently _e_xecuted _e_xpediency."

Begley's parting remark sounded an awful lot like, 'damn cheeky bat'.

:

:

Ministry of Magic

Central London

.

Finding Malfoy – both Malfoys – was easy. Father and son were right where Jumpy said they were: together, conferring with legal aides about Umbridge's up-coming appeal. He leaned nonchalantly against the door frame and waited to be acknowledged.

Draco saw him first.

"Mister Zabini. Something we can help you with?"

In the presence of others, especially those who answered to his authority, which was damn near everyone, Draco brought his Malfoy veneer to a high shine.

Blaise smirked. He couldn't help it. His bloodline didn't run as deep and as pure as Draco's, but no Malfoy could ever hope to out-arrogant a Zabini. He made a show out of examining his manicure as he oh-so-casually alluded to what he'd been doing over the past hour and a half.

"You haven't heard? Not an hour ago, _Remus Lupin's cub_ was brought in from the cold."

Draco's hand shifted from the table top to his lap the second Blaise used their code-words. Blaise would bet a thousand Galleons that his best mate was digging his nails into his thigh to keep himself from displaying any 'undue emotions' in front of the Ministry's legal team over someone as innocuous as a werewolf's cub. "Is that so? He must be…relieved."

A slight tightening of the skin around the outer edges of Draco's eyes let slip just how hard it was for the Veela to maintain control in the presence of others.

That's when Lucius interceded on his son's behalf.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a good place for us to stop for today. Good day to you all."

Exonerated Death Eater he may be, but the three wizards and two witches were quick to collect their parchments and quills and file into the corridor at Lucius Malfoy's imperious dismissal. No sooner had the door shut behind them, Lucius pulled his wand from his cane and Silenced the conference room.

Lucius' cold stare was just as daunting as the eerie silver that flared in Draco's normally grey eyes.

"If this is just another sighting, I'll tell you that your timing leaves much to be desired. Umbridge has found grounds to file an appeal. If she succeeds in having her charges dismissed, or even diminished…" Draco shook his head, the ramifications of Umbridge being released on a technicality could undo the years of inroads he and Potter had forged.

"Then just think of the expression on Umbridge's face when you call a yet-to-be-heard witness to testify against her."

"Mister Zabini… You have you seen her, verified this, yourself?"

Blaise could understand why Lucius was so hesitant to accept his assertion. This wouldn't be the first time when someone came to them, swearing that they'd found Hermione Granger, the Milk Bottle Maiden, only to discover that the girl in question was a cleverly glamoured or Polyjuiced facsimile.

Blaise dropped his Pureblood, Slytherin and recently minted Auror posture. Right now, all he wanted to be was excited and relieved that five long, _long_, years of soul-crushing searching and hoping had come to an end.

"I swear on my magic, Draco." Blaise knelt on one knee in front of Draco. He took his wand-brother's hand. Blue tendrils shimmered, swirled, and twined around and through their clasped fingers, attesting to the truth he spoke. "She's with Lupin and Snape as we speak."

At that, Lucius sank into the nearest chair. His cane clattered to the polished wooden floor. Blaise could feel the relief radiate off of the man. His only child was not going to succumb to the Black Family Curse.

Practically reverent, Draco brought up his other hand and laid it across their joined fingers. "Tell me where she is?"

Blaise took a deep breath. He flinched when Draco's grip tightened. "Snape took her to Derwent's." He hastened to assure his oldest friend. "She's not hurt too badly, but she needed help. It was the best possible choice, Draco."

Blaise cringed when Draco squeezed his hand hard enough to pop his knuckles. He looked to Lucius for help before Draco inadvertently mangled his fingers.

"Draco – release him!" Lucius commanded.

Draco had long since grown out of the pointedness that dominated his face as a youth. As a man of twenty-three, his facial structure had softened just enough to bring a hint of square to his jaw and receded his chin enough to bring it into balance with his Norman nose, high cheekbones, and six-foot stature. Except that right now, Draco's face had contorted into sharp edges and harsh planes as his Veela vied for control. His mate had been hurt and was in the care of others; neither himself nor his Bonded was there to care for her in the aftermath or had protected her from being harmed in the first place.

The pain Blaise felt in his fingers brought tears to his eyes.

Lucius non-verbally retrieved his walking stick up from off the floor. He tucked his wand back into his cane. He stood. He rapped the floor sharply three times.

"Draco Abraxas Malfoy." A subtle purple glow built under Lucius' cane and back-lit his pale-blue eyes. As a wand-brother to Draco, Blaise could feel his own magic acknowledge Lucius' filial authority as the Malfoy patriarch called forth his family's magic. "I command you to release Blaise Zabini!"

Their hands suddenly separated. Blaise fell aside, cradling his sprained hand. Draco's face reverted to its usual handsome visage. Lucius switched his cane to his right hand, the magic he summoned to control his son no longer necessary or wanted.

He strode over to Draco and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "Forgive me, Draco. There was no other way."

Draco nodded. He conceded that his father wouldn't have invoked his rights as Pater if he didn't have a choice.

Wordlessly, the younger Malfoy slipped out of his chair. Blaise felt him kneel beside him. Gingerly, he cupped the injured hand and, with his other, he drew his wand. "_Episkey_."

Blaise gasped at the sensation of his sprain being suddenly healed.

As Draco's father did to him, Draco now did to Blaise. Blaise looked to his friend, his brother, and nodded his acceptance when Draco murmured, "Forgive me, Blaise?"

The moment of crisis passed, the reason why it happened in the first place hadn't.

Blaise accepted Draco's outstretched hand and allowed the blond man to help pull him to his feet. He sat opposite the Malfoy heir, with Lucius not three feet away.

"Go, Draco. See her for yourself. I'll find Harry and I'll bring him to you." He had to say something else, something Draco wasn't going to like. "Draco, when she wakes up, she's not going to be happy to see you – us – any of us."

Blaise's comment pushed Draco to his feet. The blond's hand was on the door knob, when he paused and made eye contact over one of his well-developed shoulders.

"When has she ever?"

In that moment, the heir to a legacy of nearly a thousand years and a powerful wizard in his own right, the embattled Veela was just a man facing a nearly impossible task.

Blaise struggled to find some way to infuse his brother with some measure of hope and reassurance. "You won over Potter. You'll earn Granger."

"I did. And I will. But I can't lose sight of the fact that, with her, I have half as long to accomplish twice as much."

With those last words, Draco opened the conference room door and waited until his father gained his side.

"Thank you, Blaise."

Lucius Malfoy didn't 'thank' people. But it was there anyway, in words and gesture, when his godfather clapped a hand to his shoulder as he walked to his son.

Blaise followed them out into the hallway. The last image he had of the two Malfoys was them cleaving a path through the undulating flow of Ministry workers on their way to the Ministry's massive Floos.

Sliding back into his public-consumption persona, all in all, Blaise had to say that he did fairly well.

Except for the fact that he didn't pass-off the responsibility of having to find and inform Harry Potter that Granger was alive, not that well, and currently in the company of Severus Snape, Remus Lupin, Adrian Pucey, Marcus Flint and one Kostadin Hristo Dakova. Blaise stood a chance of having more than his hand sprained when he relayed the fact that Harry Potter was going to be among the last of their little make-shift coalition to find out Granger had been recovered.

He set his feet on a path to the lifts.

Potter, Potter. Where was Potter?

Blaise knew he wasn't at the Manor. If he had, he would've been with them when Severus ordered them to East Nowhere, Timbuktu, to rescue some no-name Muggles.

Except they weren't a pair of no-name Muggles, were they? It was bloody Granger and her pretty-boy bodyguard.

Merlin's nutsack! He never saw that one coming. Hell, he didn't even recognize the chit. Granted, ninety-five percent of the three whole minutes he spent directly and indirectly interacting with her, he never had a chance to get a good look at her face.

His memory of the last time he'd seen her would stay fixed in his mind until the day he died.

It was eight days after Voldemort's demise. That afternoon, he had traveled to Hogwarts to give testimony for himself, Goyle, Draco, Lucius, and Snape. His session was to continue the next morning.

Too caught up in the memories of all that had happened over the course of the past year, he stood on the top of one of the few remaining structurally-sound turrets in the middle of the night. She was below him, standing in some courtyard. Her nose was tilted towards the star-filled sky. The light from a gibbous moon highlighted the tear tracks on her face. Her hair lifted, swirled, and fell in the post-midnight breeze and her clothes were ripped and stained. He knew enough from his own mental anguish that she wasn't breaking. She was attempting to find some middle ground between grieving for the dead and injured and her relief at being alive and relatively unharmed.

In that moment, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

Even more so than when she locked eyes with him and simply extended her arm, silently pleading with him to take her hand and allow her to pull him up and onto the broom so that the two of them could escape the Fiendfyre Crabbe had unleashed. It was years later that he confessed to Draco and Potter, one night when they were deep into their cups and sufficiently maudlin to talk about that day, that it was he who controlled the broom as they rocketed away from the rapidly encroaching flames. Granger was too focused on holding a wandless _Protego_ around them, the broom that carried Draco and Harry, and Weasley and Goyle to properly manage the decrepit Cleansweep. He didn't mind admitting that he was pleasantly surprised when he sensed their two auras intermingling instead of clashing during those fraught moments.

In retrospect, he could see why Draco and Potter would want her, need her. Her magic was so strong, so in-tune with her soul, her sense of being… There was something about that combination that made his magic crave additional contact with hers. He knew, without a doubt, that she wasn't going to leave him there to burn to death. To have that kind of all-or-nothing protection extended to him was… life-changing. Irrevocably, it spoiled his conception of what he wanted out of a life-partner. Witches weren't supposed to do that. It was a wizard's duty to protect his witch, his woman. And she was definitely a witch. Seated behind her on that stubby broom, he knew exactly how womanly she was. And yet, she didn't marginalize his masculinity or his wizardness when she rescued him. Because, as strong as she was – is – she still needed him to help fly the broom.

There was no way in the seven hells that he was going to settle for anything less than what he felt with her that afternoon. For all his wand-brother had endured and suffered, Draco deserved a witch – a woman – like Granger.

He owed her two life-debts; a personal and a physical life-debt. No doubt about that. Draco and Greg owed her one, too. After all, it was her insistence that made Potter and Weasley turn their brooms around and rescue his mates. Hell, the world owed Potter a life-debt, and that life-debt, in turn, belonged to Granger because without her, Potter would never've brought down Voldemort.

His thoughts jerked back to what happened today. Granger!? In Africa? High-tailing it across the bloody continent with some Krum look-alike? Told to deliver them to some port-authority-tourist-depot in Libreville, Gabon? He didn't even know there was a country named Gabon until he was given a Portkey keyed to those co-ordinates! Although, the irony was rich: take Granger to a town called Libreville. Bookville? How ironically apropos!

For five bloody years, he'd watched as Draco and Potter – well, he'd switched to calling Potter 'Harry' roughly two years ago – put themselves and everyone around them through the emotional wringer as they turned the world inside-out looking for the blasted witch. Now, through a twist of bloody fate, the girl lands in their lap. Well, granted they had Pucey's wand to thank for that. If Adrian hadn't hurt her, then there's no telling where she'd be.

Oh yeah – there would be. And Draco would string him up by his balls for putting her on a cruise ship headed for Port Anywhere, no doubt with an untraceable alias.

He navigated his way through the maze of Ministry corridors. Within moments, he reached the nearest 'approved' Apparation point.

His wand was in his hand and he didn't even remember why he drew it.

Then he remembered why the Sorting Hat placed him in Slytherin.

He conjured his Patronus. He looked at the powerful, slinky, ethereal panther that stood as high as his hip. He dictated his message and coded it so that it would only speak to Potter. "Granger found. Teak Room. Derwent's."

In Slytherin, you didn't waste your time looking for someone. You made them come to you.

He spun on his heel. Destination, determination-

He stopped himself before he conceptualized the third 'D' of Apparation.

With a self-pitying groan, he chose a different destination than Derwent's.

Theo Nott's memory charms were just as good as Marcus'.

With any luck, Theo was back from his morning ride and up for an adventure.

With slightly better luck, the two of them could be back from Loubomo, mercenaries Obliviated and that damned duffle bag in hand, before anyone at the Ministry realized what they had done.

:

:

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Scotland

September 12, 2003

A week after she left, two days after being told about his Veela-ness, it finally dawned on Harry that the only persons he hadn't canvassed in regards to Hermione's whereabouts were the ones he should have started with in the first place.

House-elves.

More specifically, Hogwarts House-elves.

Young, old, male, female, adolescent – at least, he figured they were adolescents, but with elves, he wasn't absolutely sure – didn't matter. Every elf he saw, he asked if he or she had seen Hermione.

At first, his questions received the same answer: yes, they'd seen her, but not since the last of their dead had been buried.

Dejected but refusing to give up, he found a way to ask the same questions with different wording, hoping against hope that some elf somewhere knew something.

That's when he found one that did.

A small, quiet, elf, who slunk away every time Harry found a new way to say the same thing.

He followed her.

Once they were out of ear-shot of her fellow elves, Harry cornered her. With patience and a bit of cunning, he followed Fiver – Hermione had christened the little elf – as she led him around heaps of rubble, down a barely-stable staircase that no longer moved, and came alongside the little elf when she stopped in front of a life-sized, non-wizarding, portrait of Guy Fawkes.

Instinctively, Harry tugged on the right-hand side of the portrait. For a moment, he was put-out by the fact that no hidden door was revealed.

Then he thought about all the various reasons 'why' the frame wouldn't budge.

With a bemused smile, he tugged on the _left_-hand side of the portrait.

Fiver wringing her little hands and flattening her overly-long ears was all the proof he needed to know that he'd guessed correctly.

What he found inside that hidden room was proof that he didn't know Hermione as well as she knew him.

The room was large. Oil-burning wall sconces and a sizable sunken hearth in the middle of the room provided light and heat. An inviting sectional sofa ringed half the hearth. Two separate, identical, desks sat roughly twelve-feet across from one another. A four-poster bed, complete with thick curtains, straddled a far corner. The reason for the unusual angle? So that wall space could be better utilized.

And utilized it was.

Behind one desk, on the wall, a Muggle calendar and other main-stream Muggle information was posted. A study schedule dominated one whole quadrant: physics, chemistry, biology, world history, a variety of languages, economics, assorted mathematics, and several other electives each had their own color and place in the complicated chart. Birthdays, anniversaries and other important dates were circled if they'd yet to pass or crossed out once event occurred. A tall, broad bookcase teemed with Muggle textbooks and publications.

The other desk was purely magic-oriented. A long golden chain with an hour-glass pendant hung from a simple hook to the left of where a magical studies study schedule was prominently placed. Birthdays, anniversaries and dates-of-special-significance like Samhain, Vali, Lamas, were either circled or crossed out. Six years of Hogwarts text books and the vast array of supporting tomes populated one whole half of the corresponding bookcase. Gaps in the alphabetical and chronological sequence corresponded with the titles he remembered them leafing through while they were on the run.

Harry ran his hand across the spines. That's when he noticed that no book in the other half of her Wizarding bookcase had ever appeared on any Hogwarts professor's 'recommended reading' list.

It was her own, private, Restricted Section.

Broken down by subject and title, Dark Arts books filled a whole shelf. Reference tomes for Arithmancy and Runes, in a variety of languages and disciplines took over two whole shelves. She owned dictionaries for languages he recognized as well as those he'd never known existed. A massive Potions concordance, the likes of which could earn an apprentice a Mastery, sat in a place of honor on the very top of the bookcase. Stacked like firewood, hand-written scrolls, each tied with a color-coded ribbon, filled the remainder of the lower shelves of the bookcase.

This is where she learned to protect him. This is where she stockpiled the knowledge that kept him and her and Ron alive.

Resting in the center of her magical desk was the symbol of what this room represented: her expanded beaded bag.

Shame-faced, he traced the pattern of remaining beads that decorated the bag that held everything from books to Dittany to spare clothes to a pack of playing cards. Overwhelmed, he slowly turned on his heel to see what else the room held.

What he saw made his stomach clench.

The remaining wall was devoted to him.

Not in a crazy, Ginny-esque or Romilda Vane, fan-girl way.

No. In a 'how does everything seem to come back to Harry' kind of way.

News clippings were tacked alongside pictures of people – or, if a picture wasn't possible, a reasonable representation appeared – who had a direct, or indirect, impact on his life. Timelines in various stages of completion competed for wall-space. Prominent figures had their own special sections: Sirius, James, Lily, Snape, Lupin, Neville, Krum, Riddle, and so many others. Draco, and to a lesser extent Lucius, had his own significantly-sized assigned spot. More than forty years of class enrollment rosters, dating back to when Tom Riddle, Abraxas Malfoy and Hagrid were students, stretched from floor to ceiling. Mounted in another area, yet connected to the whole, were incomplete family trees. Questions, thoughts and extrapolations were scrawled, crossed-out, circled, or re-added directly onto the stone wall. It was evident, due to the layering of information and the fact that every scrap of information, thought, question and extrapolation was dated, the compilation he was currently staring at had been started during their third year. The earliest date he found? October 3, 1993.

A web of color-coded threads interconnected the assembled visual display of his life.

The spider in Hermione's logic web?

Dumbledore.

Harry had realized a bit too late just how manipulative Dumbledore was. He thought he knew the breadth of Dumbledore's scheming and cruel disregard for those he deemed 'pawns' when Snape shared his most private memories, which was why Harry had offered Albus his forgiveness during their tête-à-tête when Harry hovered between life and death.

The true scope of Dumbledore's machinations turned his stomach inside-out.

The sick part was that, according to what Hermione had assembled, the man was fully aware of everything he did and twisted to his benefit every random opportunity.

A surge of anger erupted from his chest and out of his mouth.

All those times he and Ron had teased her about how no one could possibly spend as much time in the library as she did echoed in his head. All those times she simply shrugged at their ribbing with a casually phrased, 'we all have to study somewhere, Ronald', and all the variations thereof were nothing more than cleverly worded side-steppings. All those times he and Ron never looked for her, when she'd be gone for hours or days on end, because they assumed that she was in the library or otherwise caught up in her latest project – never suspecting that she could be anywhere else or which project sued for her attention. All those times he ignored Lavender and Pavarti's odd comments that Hermione slept in the library more than she slept in her own bed… All of it, her duplicity, his inattention to her, never thinking that she could be more than what she was, burned in his chest and set fire the air in his lungs.

He was glad that Hermione had run. If she had been within arm's reach, his Veela and sanity be damned, their friendship or hope for the future Draco spoke of wouldn't have survived the initial torrent of emotions unleashed.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME!"

Every time he read a new detail, he'd shout at the walls because he couldn't shout at her.

"FUCK YOU, HERMIONE GRANGER!"

Every time another realization registered, he cursed her name.

At the end of three hours, after he'd screamed and shouted himself hoarse, put his heart back in his chest and Vanished the vomit from where it landed on the floor, he staggered to the bed.

The linens were a trifle dusty, but held no trace of mold or mildew. The bedspread, pillows, even the drapes, though, did smell like her. Her lingering aroma was further proof that she'd been here in the days and nights since Voldemort's demise.

With a shaky hand he reached for and dragged a smallish ornamental square pillow under his chin and left cheek. From the arrangement of the other pillows, this was the way she usually lay in her bed: with a full view of her Harry Wall.

Time held no measure when the numbness from his emotional breakdown took hold.

Eventually, the clamor in his soul settled to a dull roar. His neck was stiff from lying in such an awkward position for such a long time. His glasses hung crookedly on his nose. His tongue and the back of his throat felt dry and pasty.

With a bit of a stretch, he lifted his face from the pillow.

That's when he began to forgive Hermione – the moment he realized that his weren't the first tear-stains on that pillow.

She had cried for him.

One by one, he peered at the other pillows on the bed.

They all bore tear-stains.

Repeatedly. She had cried for him _repeatedly_.

On top of all his other sins against Hermione, he had proved Draco's accusation of 'faithless' to be true.

His own face had long since dried. Now, oddly enough, he felt the first stirring of peace.

How was that possible?

She had willingly followed him into the lion's den, fully aware that he was allowing Dumbledore to put his head in the mouth of a lion that Dumbledore himself had reared and bred.

No one does that unless they love the person who is about to be eaten by the proverbial lion.

That was five years ago. Over the years…

… It was in this room that he hated Hermione Granger.

… It was in this room that his hatred turned into a Hermione Granger hero-worship-the-girl-could-do-no-wrong fan-boy obsession.

… It was in this room, on Hermione's comfortable couch, during one of his episodes of abject despair, that he first fucked Draco Malfoy.

… It was in this room that he processed his sessions with his Mind Healer, the same carefully vetted and Vow-bound Mind Healer that also treated Severus, Draco, Remus and Lucius.

… It was in this room that his obsession evolved into a devoted, healthy, love for a woman he discovered in between the pages of the knowledge she'd amassed and the only way she'd ever been allowed to express her love for him.

… It was in this room he found the courage to risk his relationship with the Weasleys. He decided to tell Ginny that she should look elsewhere for a husband because his heart, soul and magic resided with Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. It was also where he decided that Ron deserved to know that Hermione would never bear the title Missus Weasley, because he and Draco had claimed her for themselves.

… It was in this room, in a moment of true honesty and acceptance for all that existed between him and Draco and what awaited them once they found Hermione that they, on Hermione's bed, they made love for the first time.

… It was to this room that he retreated, when the steady, soothing thrum of Draco's magic and Draco's even breathing caressing his neck wasn't enough to lull him to sleep.

… It was in this room that he found his faith in her, in Draco, in himself, and the plan they had to make sure Hermione would never leave them once they found her.

Even in absentia, she was still protecting him, teaching him, and loving him.

If Minerva ever felt the school's wards alert her to his presence, she never made mention of it. Nor did she ever contradict the request he made to Fiver that the oil wells and hearth be in a constant state of readiness, the floors swept, ewer cleaned, the matching pitcher filled with fresh water, and the corners cleared of cobwebs.

Draco never begrudged him his sojourns to Hermione's Haven, the name he gave her room.

It was in this room that he'd had an epiphany as to where to find their errant witch.

Four weeks ago, for the umpteenth time over the course of five years, Harry lay on his back, head propped on a bed-pillow, barefoot and ankles crossed on Hermione's couch. He was re-reading the hand-written words, etched in flowing calligraphy, which filled the top two feet of the perimeter of the room. The words that umbrella'ed both the Muggle and Wizarding aspects of Hermione's Haven and the Harry Wall were titled: The Declaration of Human Rights. At the tail-end of the Declaration was a sentence that didn't match the cadence or formal language of the previous text: _it is better to light a candle than curse the dark_.

He swung his legs to the floor and sat up sharply. He'd seen that phrase somewhere other than written on the wall! Somewhere in this very room!

Invigorated, he pawed at Hermione's Muggle bookcase. Titles and tomes were shifted and anxiously examined.

Nothing.

He wasn't going to give up. He knew, as sure as he was magical and that his name was Harry James Potter, that sentence, ten words that encapsulated the essence of Hermione, was the key to finding her.

He moved to her Muggle desk. He sat in her chair and looked at all the artifacts spread across the desktop and blotter. A coffee cup, long since cleaned by Fiver, rested over a long-established watermark. Wire-bound notebooks remained stacked on the outer right corner. Clipboards hung from the sides of the desk. Paperclips crowded a squat, magnet-rimmed rectangular box. A stapler; still loaded, still ready-to-use. Two tubes of different flavored lip balm, long-past its expiration date, were nestled in an oblong basket that also held a mish-mosh of Muggle pens, pencils, highlighters in multiple colors, hair elastics and a few pretty barrettes.

He plucked the basket from its place, cradled it in his hands, and up-ended it.

His magic practically sang as the contents spilled across the outdated blotter.

One particular pen he brandished with a whoop and a flourish when he read the two lines of script that had been printed on it:

_Human Rights Day 1994_

_It is better to light a candle than curse the dark_

Human Rights Day… Human Rights Day… Where had he seen Human Rights Day?

He turned to Hermione's Muggle calendar. The sequence of months tacked to the wall spanned their sixth year, September 1996 through May 1997.

Month by month, he carefully read each and every Muggle holiday and day-of-observance.

December 10, 1996: Human Rights Day. It was circled and crossed out. Inside the circle were two groups of letters: AI and JFF.

Harry knew of only one JFF: Justin Finch-Fletchley. A fellow DA member and a Hufflepuff to boot!

Justin could either tell him what he knew about Hermione and AI or he'd let Draco have a go at the 'Puff. For Justin's sake, Harry hoped that Draco wouldn't have to be called. His Bonded didn't have the personal memories that Harry could draw on when his Veela was riled. Draco was, because of his lack of positive Hermione memories, more volatile and heavy-handed when it came to those who held information about their missing mate.

Two weeks later, Severus and Remus in lieu of him and Draco, met with Alec Digges for the first time.

Granted the first meeting could've gone better. But each wizard vowed that they'd travel to Cornwall every day if that's what it took to persuade the stubborn man.

Hence, Harry had found himself back at Hermione's Haven last night and he'd stayed well into the morning. The breakfast Fiver delivered was one he only picked at to stave off the worse of his hunger.

Those feelings of hopelessness were starting to creep up on him again.

Umbridge winning her plea for an appeal set his Veela on edge. Umbridge was to Harry what Snape had been to Sirius. Add to that Lupin and Snape's report that they were still no closer to prying Hermione's location out of Digges and that Kingsley was attempting to railroad his, with Lucius as his front man, initiative to establish an alternative to the Dementor's Kiss for those convicted of committing heinous crimes… Although, truth be told? He wouldn't lose sleep or appetite if Umbridge ended up being the last Kissed witch or wizard.

He was shrugging into his flight-cloak when a sleek Patronus sauntered through the lit hearth.

The ethereal beast was the personification of Blaise Zabini.

Harry snapped his wrist. His wand rolled into his palm from where his holster was strapped to his forearm. He let the panther 'sniff' his holly wand, proof of his identity. Only two others held a wand with a similar core to his. Draco carried one. The other awaited Hermione's return.

Blaise's cultured tones flowed from the beast's open mouth. "Granger found. Teak Room. Derwent's."

Message delivered, its job done, the panther dissipated.

Elation swelled within him. This was flying over the Black Lake on Buckbeak's back! This was catching his first Snitch! This was being hugged by Hermione in the Great Hall after she was de-petrified. For his Veela, the news was… His Veela _cawed_ – well and truly _cawed_!

Draco was so going to get fucked into the mattress tonight!

With shaking hands, he fumbled with the lacings on his flight gloves. Thankfully, he'd already donned his boots.

Broom in one hand, he snagged a piece of cold toast from his breakfast tray and jogged to the door. Guy Fawkes slammed back into place as he hurtled across the threshold and sprinted for the nearest available exit.

He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the mid-September sun.

He threw his leg over his broom and gripped the pommel with one hand. With the other, he tapped himself on his head. He'd never thought he'd feel so glad to feel the sensation of goopy eggs slide over his person as his disillusion spell took hold.

With gusto, he angled the broom due-east and kicked off.

Leaning forward, picking up speed by the second, it was with a sudden sense of dread and irrational anger that Harry actually understood what the Patronus meant when it said, 'Derwent's'.

His Veela did the only thing it could do in the wake of knowing that his mate was hurt.

It channeled more magic into the broom and pushed it to go faster.

.

* * *

PLEASE - and I really feel self-conscious sharing this... but... PLEASE: R-E-V-I-E-W... It really does do a writer's soul good to read what you think

* * *

Fiver is named in honor of Fiver, the rabbit, from Richard Adams' novel: Watership Down. In Adams' book, a 'fiver' is the runt of a very large litter, and because of such, not expected to survive. It is in this regard that Hermione named the little elf, and not because, as Fiver had in Watership Down, the elf has the gift of premonition. Or does she?

Alec Digges is a real person; he had a direct hand in forming Amnesty International as well as being a life-long Quaker. As to where he lives and how he comports himself? I believe the term 'creative license' is completely applicable in this instance!


	5. Chapter 5

**To Earn Hermione Jane**

Summary:

In the wake of the final battle against Voldemort, Hermione Granger left the Wizarding world.

Five days later, two men - life-long enemies - realized why they had such a bitter rivalry and that she was one witch they can't - and won't - live without.

Now, Harry and Draco have seven years to:

1. Find her

2. Woo her

3. Woo each other

4. Settle the past

5. Facilitate a future for the three of them within the Wizarding world

If they fail, they'll succumb to the Black Family Curse, a Curse that destroyed Bellatrix and nearly claimed a teen-aged Sirius: sociopathic madness

If they succeed, Harry, Draco and Hermione - together - will have the kind of love, and lives, that'll inspire bards and composers for generations.

The clock started ticking ten days ago... and they have no idea where to start

* * *

Many and grateful thanks to Severus' Malfoy Maiden ( www . fanfiction u / 2042569 / - eliminate the spaces after cutting-and-pasting) for her wonderful beta'ing.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**.**

Teak Room

Dily's Derwent's Home for the Convalescing Wizard

Berwick-upon-Tweed

Scotland

September 13th, 2003

:

:

Contrary to popular belief, Severus Snape did have a sense of humor. And right now, his funny bone was well and truly tickled. After the drama and angst of the past hour, it was good to roll about in some testosterone.

This time it was Adrian who set off another round of guffaws, chuckles and snickers; all at the expense of Theo Nott, Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy.

"It's not funny." Theo's voice was thick. As it would be if an enraged Veela had one by the throat and squeezed until said Veela was forcibly removed.

"Oh yes, it is." Blaise snickered, his face clearly displaying a 'better you than me' expression.

Even Lucius cracked a bemused smile as Harry Potter, his lower half clad only in boxers, shoes and socks, shifted in his seat and resettled the generously-sized ice-pack over his bruised cock and balls.

From his place on the sofa where he had the goose-egg on his head pressed into an ice-pack of his very own, Draco grumped, "You try taking a vase to the head and see how you like it, Pucey."

"What was that, Bandit?" Adrian quipped playfully.

"Bandeet?" Kostas didn't get the basis for Draco's new Pucey-original nick-name.

Remus leaned closer to the Durmstrang graduate. "The Healer was able to re-set Draco's nose, but there's nothing that can be done for the matching black-eyes Draco's going to sport in a couple of hours. Adrian's nick-name is a play-on calling Draco a raccoon. Raccoons are clever scavengers, indigenous to America, and known for getting into things. The markings around their eyes make it seem as if they're wearing masks."

"And there was no way I was going to let some yahoo-with-a-wand swish-and-flick anywhere near my bits." Potter's pronouncement would've wrung echoes of solidarity from the other men – if he hadn't said it through clenched teeth.

Severus couldn't resist_._ "No foolish wand-waving, Mister Potter?"

Adrian, Marcus, Blaise, Theo, Draco and Potter reacted just as he intended when he paraphrased his infamous speech: raucous laughter.

Potter shook his head, intractable in his conviction. "Professor, let's say that I have good reason to 'suffer needlessly'. I have no intention of being another Zacharias Smith."

Theo's voice was still a harsh whisper, but it didn't stop him from popping his eyebrows to his hairline. "Is that what happened?"

Blaise and Draco perked up at the ten-year old gossip. "What are you two going on about?"

"Zacharias Smith found out the hard way about Lockhart's 'adeptness' at healing charms." Potter grinned at the Ravenclaw's misfortune. "Smith was always a bit of wanker – except when he couldn't!"

It pleased Severus to see even Lucius stifle a snicker at Potter's insinuation.

"Harry – a bit of backstory for the rest of us, please?" Remus understood Potter's connotation, but didn't know the context. The werewolf, too it seemed, needed these moments of levity in the wake of Miss Granger's violent reaction to being back in the Wizarding world against her will.

Potter lifted his ice-pack – non-verbal request for 'payment'. Lupin obliged and pointed his wand at the more-water-than-ice pouch.

Potter had a fresh bag of ice, and Lupin and the rest of them would hear the backstory.

"In Second Year, the DADA teacher was Gilderoy Lockhart. The ponciest ponce since ponces first ponced."

Draco, Theo, Marcus, Adrian, and Blaise murmured their two-Knuts at Lockhart's expense. Severus nearly shuddered at the memory of the plethora of pastels that poser inflicted during the ponce's time at Hogwarts.

"It was during Quidditch. I caught the Snitch-"

"Never get tired of saying that, do you," Draco groused, sans sour grapes.

Potter packaged together a smirk and a two-fingered salute for Draco as he continued. "But I broke my arm in the process. Lockhart made a show of healing me. Except, instead of mending my breaks, he Vanished all the bones in my arm between my elbow and my fingers. I spent the next forty-eight hours cooped-up in the Infirmary re-growing them."

"And Smith?" Remus prompted, wanting to make sure he got his 'money's' worth.

"I wasn't the first person Lockhart tried to heal that week. I wasn't the only one who spent two days growing something back!"

Blaise proved that he had some deductive reasoning skills. "How'd you know that's what happened to him if you were in hospital after Smith was released?"

Severus never saw someone struggle so valiantly to keep a straight-face as Potter now did. "The second night I was there, Smith came into the infirmary. He demanded that he be examined because, 'it wasn't growing back right' and that, 'it was never this small'!" Potter snorted, at Smith's expense. "Good Merlin – the kid was twelve! How 'big' could it have been?"

Adrian had only one thing to say about that. "Poor Madam Pomfrey!"

"I know!" Potter's eyes shined with tears of laughter. "What that poor woman has had to have seen…"

"Don't go there, Potter." Marcus shook his head, commiserating with the plight of a school medi-witch. "The possibilities are," he struggled to find the right word, "ugly."

"Kinda like Malfoy the Younger is right now?" Adrian good-naturedly needled the face-sore Veela. "Hey – I'm not the one who's first words to Granger were: like what you've done to your hair."

"The fact that she re-arranged Malfoy's face had nothing to do with her kicking your arse, did it Potter?" Marcus piped up sarcastically, now that he was no longer the only one who'd had his arse served to him by a hundred-ten-pound witch. He turned his gaze to where Kostas, who sat next to Lupin, leaned back in his chair as if he was the Pasha of all he surveyed. "What was it you said she called it?"

"Fisting." Kostas smirk grew as he took in the array of injuries around him.

The Serb's double entendre was beautifully delivered. Severus' funny bone caused him to chortle, out loud, in front of what would seem to be, with a Serbian guest-star and two wayward Gryffindors, a Slytherin Common Room Reunion.

"It means: **f**ace **i**mpact, **s**tomp **t**esticles." Kostas made it a point to properly pronounce all the consonants and vowels.

"You didn't teach it to her, did you Kostas? Because that would be just…wrong." Adrian shuddered, clearly glad to know that he made the right choice when everything hit the fan in Granger's room that he kept his arse firmly out of the fray.

"She came up vith it on her vone. She said vat 'stomach, instep, nose, groin' took too long."

"She never did have a problem with 'use this word in an original sentence'." Potter's previous exuberance was tempered by Granger's impressive ability to learn, extrapolate, and apply.

"It's her preverred self-defense 'von-two' combo when she's outnumbered two-to-von."

Severus watched as Kostas beckoned to an all-to-glad-to-participate Pucey and Flint to demonstrate what she did. He placed Flint a pace behind him and Pucey two paces in front of him.

"Strike von opponent, open palm, full-force, dead-on the underside ovf nose wifth upvard motion." Kostas lunged forward and threw his open, angled, palm at Adrian. He stopped a half-an-inch from the tip of Pucey's nose. Blaise's side comment of, 'then bleed profusely' triggered another round of chuckles and a glare that promised Slytherin justice from Severus' godson.

Kostas resumed his demonstration. His palm was still set to strike Pucey's nose. Behind him, Flint made to grab Kostas' upper arms. "Then pivot vith hip, leg extended, and snap a kick, heel-virst, at seecond opponent's crotch."

Marcus had the good grace not to mimic the fetal position Potter adopted when Granger's size-five hiking boot struck home. It took all that Severus had not to groan with sympathy pain. Any bloke who'd taken a hit to the stones – or bounced a little too hard on his broomstick – knew how badly that hurt and could empathize whole-heartedly.

Kostas looked at Draco. "The vase she smashed on vour head? Object of opportunity – nofthing more."

"Object of opportunity," Draco harrumphed. He made to snatch Potter's freshened ice pack, but one look from the Lily's son was enough to keep Draco's hands to himself.

"You're lucky, Bandeet."

"How's that?" Draco shot Harry a 'don't get used to it' look when Harry smirked at Kostas' use of Draco's new Pucey-nickname.

"Eevf she vanted to kill you, you'd be dead. Normally, that kind of face-blow vould sends bone shards into your brain. She hit you dead-on, not at angle."

"Then why didn't she?" Draco pondered. His slightly morose gaze drifted to Potter, who also looked like his metaphorical puppy had just been kicked. "She clearly believed that she was fighting for her life."

"Because she vanted escape." Kostas answer was surprisingly simple and slightly unnerving. "Dead bodies follow you."

The Serb, too, looked like his puppy had been kicked – twice.

"Next time, if she asks, make sure she means her hands when she says, 'let me show you my fist'." Adrian nudged Marcus knowingly, bringing everyone back to the fact that out of all of them, she went 'the easiest' on Flint.

Everyone except Potter burst out in laughter. The man tried to laugh, but the pain from his groin area sent him wheezing. If it weren't for the donut-cushion the Healer had wedged under his bum, he would've slumped to the side.

Which only instigated a fresh round of laughter.

"Tell me again how Mister Nott came to be wearing a – what did you call it, Potter?" Lucius, for all his noblesse, related to each man in the room as if they were taking cigars and libations at his club.

"Ring-around-the-collar," Potter supplied the Muggle catch-phrase that referred to the circle of bruises that Theo would wear, courtesy of Draco, for the next few days.

At that, Severus stood. He didn't need to tell the others where he was going. They all knew that he was going to check on the slumbering witch.

:

Ever so quietly, he opened the door just enough to allow him to cross the threshold. With equal care, he re-closed the door.

A lone candle, little more than a tea-light, burned between the base of Keegan's frame and the bedside hurricane lamp. Severus' careful footsteps didn't cause enough of a draft to trouble the burning wick.

Even with those Muggle relaxants coursing through her bloodstream, she didn't look at rest. Her brow was furrowed and every few moments, her jaw would clench. Her right leg twitched with barely-visible muscle spasms.

That was something Severus could identify with. To this day, he still suffered, as she still suffered, with post-Cruciatus nerve damage.

The events that played out in this room not two hours ago would follow him for a long time to come.

The Healer who Keegan summoned wasn't able to do much for the young woman. Her long time use of dampeners meant that she'd have to be weaned off their suppressive properties before any significant healing could be accomplished safely. A diagnostic revealed that the slow leak Zabini detected had begun to close on its own. The bone chip was still a factor, but if she was kept calm and reasonably still, there'd be no reason why she couldn't be 'off' the dampeners within a week and the bone chip, cracked rib, and shoulder damage subsequently repaired. Thankfully, the clever witch slept through the Healer wrapping a compression bandage around her torso and placing her arm in a sling.

Which was why Draco, with Potter under that accursed Invisibility cloak, was the first person the girl saw when she finally did awake.

Every good intention each of them struggled to convey only exacerbated the terror the girl exhibited.

Draco's opening line about her blacker, straighter hair was meant to be charming, witty, and disarming.

She took it to be that Death Eaters had sent Draco to inform her that her pathetic attempt to disguise herself failed.

Draco's attempt to tell the girl that she shouldn't be moving around and that she should stay in bed?

She translated it to Draco saying that she was a prisoner and that her 'well-being' was contingent on her doing as he said. Her sling promptly landed on the floor. She didn't bother hiding the fact that her shoulder and her side pained her.

Draco approaching the girl, trying to give her a chance to see for herself that he meant her no harm, was perceived as an attempt at physical restraint.

Potter revealing himself, his way of assuring Granger that Draco would never harm her and would never turn her over to Death Eaters, was the equivalent of a canister of accelerant splashed on an open flame.

Her terror increased ten-fold.

That's when he, Lupin, Nott, and Lucius charged into the room. Blaise and Marcus, shirtsleeves folded back and Dark Marks on display, crowded the doorway.

Accusations flew out of her mouth. That Potter and Lupin were under the Imperius Curse. That she never thought she'd ever be so wrong about so many people. That if they had hurt Kostas, there was no place any of them could hide from her retribution.

That declaration about another wizard, albeit one stripped of his magic, was all it took for the Veela within Potter and Draco to vie for control.

They both converged on her.

Again: best of intentions, catastrophic results.

Just as Dakova demonstrated, her open hand naught but a blur as she put her weight behind her forward momentum. Blood streamed over Draco's mouth as he staggered backwards from her impact.

Bonded to Draco, but compelled to try to soothe his unclaimed mate and estranged best friend, Harry approached Granger from behind. No sooner had his hand reached out to grasp her good arm, her foot came up and she sent a powerful kick that landed squarely in the middle of Potter's lower pelvis.

Incensed over his injured Bonded, Veela-esque Draco dragged a hand underneath his bloody nose. The effect made him look feral, enraged, and out for her blood. She lunged for a thickly glazed ceramic vase and brought it down on his head.

Dakova shouldered his way through Zabini and Flint. He came up on her and before she could register that he had something in his hand that could possibly hurt her, he jabbed her with the same kind of dart that felled Flint. He later explained that there was a stockpile of those darts inside the duffle bag that Zabini and Nott retrieved from site of the Loubomo skirmish.

Remorse colored the Serb's face at her expression of betrayal.

Severus didn't need a translator to know what they said to one another.

_Et tu, Brute?_

_Never._

The tranquilizer would render her unconscious for the next four-to-six hours.

Nearly manic with worry and grief over Granger's rejection of him, Draco dragged himself up off the floor. Shards of pottery fell from his head, collar, and shoulders. His focus was entirely on rescuing his mate as some unknown wizard had just assaulted and hurt her.

Theo, foolishly, intercepted Draco and attempted to verbally and bodily prevent the blond Veela from tending to his Bonded or retrieving his mate. That's when Draco reached up, wrapped both hands around Theo's neck, and began to squeeze.

It was only Lucius' familial authority that brought Draco back to himself.

The male-bonding that followed wasn't done at her expense. All of them had been deeply affected by what had happened. The camaraderie was little more than a coping mechanism, a way to accumulate few 'good' memories before more less-than-pleasant memories were created.

Severus's hand reached out to touch her but he didn't make contact.

In this moment, he knew he had much in common with the Muggleborn witch. Like him, she was going to be made to do something she didn't want to do. Except, for her, the two wizards – four, when she included himself and Lupin – who had been waiting years for her, had come to love her to various degrees of involvement. No one could say the same about either one of his former, now deceased, Masters.

His hand shifted two inches to the left. It now rested over hers, with layers of blankets in between. "Have faith, Child. You are not without Protectors nor are you alone."

Caught up in his thoughts he was, but he was utterly aware of the second wizard who came to be standing behind him.

Lucius Malfoy had a very specific aura. It was at the same time Dark and Light; Light, for his pure devotion to his wife, son, and family legacy and Dark for the aspects of his psyche that craved and explored the knowledge, power, and magic that left a pall in its wake.

"I did not like seeing what I saw this evening."

"None of us did, Lucius."

A regretful sigh came from the still-standing aristocrat. "Of all the plans and likelihoods we'd anticipated, none of us had ever envisioned this as a possible outcome."

"It is truly lamentable," Severus murmured. He didn't rise to greet his friend nor did he turn away from the slumbering witch as he answered Lucius' unspoken question. "I cannot begin to imagine how to proceed."

"The Serb announced that there is one who could approach her and that one should be here by the time she awakens," Lucius shared.

A third presence, so much like the first, if not a shade Darker and a shade Lighter, made himself known.

"I never meant to scare her." A grown man, at the moment a little boy, hoping his father would tell him that everything will be 'all right' in the end.

Lucius took a moment to collect the right words to say to his son. "This day has been rife with excellent choices and avoidable mistakes. Unfortunately, these all have been brought to bear on the one witch we'd hoped to court back into our graces in a more solicitous manner."

Severus agreed with Lucius' assessment. He himself had several proposals he'd had every intention of presenting to the wayward witch. Now, regardless of what stood between them, he'd be lucky if she looked at him with a jaded eye.

"How is Potter?"

"Much like Dakova, Uncle; beside himself." Draco's attention never strayed from Miss Granger as he spoke of his Bonded. "If it weren't for Blaise and Adrian deliberately being more bawdy than clever with their topics-of-choice, he'd retreat into himself. Even in the company of the others, when he thinks no one is looking, he broods."

The quest to find and ultimately keep the witch had cultivated unexpected friendships and affiliations the length and breadth of the Wizarding world for himself as well as the other four principle searchers. Pucey, by extension, Flint, and their respective families were long-standing members of their 'consortium' and had proved time and again, this night included, to be good friends to Draco and Potter.

"You shall have to help him with that, Draco."

Draco shook his head. "No, Father. Harry has to sort this out for himself."

The witch's leg twitched again in concert with her left arm.

"Dakova told us that her muscles spasms," Draco, like Severus before him, reached out as though to touch the young woman, but stopped inches from where her body rested beneath her bed covers, "has been going on ever since he first met her, but only manifests during times of great stress."

Severus had been shocked to learn 'how' and 'where' Miss Granger suffered and, ultimately survived, Bella's Cruciatus Curse. The details didn't need to be said aloud to the two men who'd witnessed Miss Granger's torture first-hand.

"He knows a lot about her." If Draco didn't sound so disheartened, one could almost call him on his jealousy.

"Dakova has had three years of daily interaction with her. You will have a lifetime."

All three men contemplated the true measure of Lucius' confidence.

"He honestly didn't know that she was a witch?" Lucius was mystified that such a detail would evade one who came from a Pure wizarding family.

A fourth presence joined them.

"She was introduced to him as a Muggle, she behaved as a Muggle, and she only lived as a Muggle." Lupin explained why Dakova didn't sense the young woman's inherent magic.

The werewolf moved around the three Slytherins and claimed a bit of bed-space directly opposite from where Severus sat. The were-wizard nodded in acknowledgement at the necessity of the sling that cradled her arm. Carefully, he folded back the edge of the sheet and blanket and exposed Hermione's dampener. He called special attention to the symbols burnt into the intricately braided narrow leather strips and the quality of the workmanship.

"These are Centaur made." He inhaled sharply over his discovery. He shifted his gaze from the witch's wrist to Severus then to Draco. "Crafted specifically for her; they wouldn't work for any of us, not even you or Harry, Draco." He traced the leather that circled her bared wrist. "I'm looking forward to hearing the story behind such a gift."

The compulsion to care for his witch had Draco lock gazes with his father. "Is there anything you can do for her?"

"If only I could, Draco. She is your mate, but as you have yet to claim her I cannot infuse her with our family's magic."

Severus actually believed that Lucius told his son the truth.

"Once the three of you accept and Mark one another, all manner of ailments and afflictions will be eradicated should you all choose to do so. But that would be the result of mate-magic, my son. It is separate, more potent, and more primal than what is termed 'everyday magic'."

Lucius' blithe reference to 'everyday magic' encompassed all things magical; everything from Merlin to Nimue, to Centaurs, to Cheering Charms, hexes, Floos, _Leviosas_, Voldemort's Horcruxes, Dumbledore's compulsion spells, wands, the potency of potions – everything.

"I can't heal her, but as Pack, I can bring her comfort." Since the death of his wife, it was common knowledge among their circle that Lupin rarely practiced any of his werewolf-based magics; for him to do so for Miss Granger? It further demonstrated that his wolf's claim was willingly affixed to her magical core.

In the low light thrown by the single tea light, Remus shifted into Moony. Except this Moony wasn't the vicious werewolf that Severus had faced twice in his life.

This version of Moony was an amber-eyed, burlier, furrier, overtly dominant and blatantly sexual were-wizard, with muted canine features prominently displayed and elongated arms and nails.

Draco's Veela, normally so protective, possessive, and jealous, respected the bond between his mate and the werewolf and didn't interfere in any way.

Even in this state, Moony held fast to Remus' sense of propriety and remained clothed as he carefully curled his large body around her petite, restless, frame. Cheek to cheek, permeating her with his scent and presence, one paw protectively splayed just under where her compression bandage spanned her ribcage, the werewolf began to softly and gently howl in cadence with his intent.

Severus had never seen werewolf magic be anything but destructive. He'd witnessed the terror and fear that Greyback's magic wrought in his victims. How the pain of a bite and-or mauling and the resulting surge of adrenaline served to accelerate the progression of the Lycan virus through the body. The survival of the one wounded was entirely contingent upon their emotional and physical fortitude.

This was decidedly different.

The low-toned and quietly pitched howls that came from deep within Moony's chest filled the quiet room. Severus's aura welcomed the feelings of mental and physical safety and familial protection that underscored the werewolf's song. Behind him, he could sense how Draco, Draco's Veela, and Lucius were similarly affected. Entranced, Severus could now understand why most werewolves and other canines preferred to belong to a Pack. He himself had only felt the gift of pure protection, when someone put themselves between what threatened him and made his woes their own, twice in his life. Once, when he was a boy; that memory powered his Patronus for most of his of his life. The second time it happened, during his brief tenure as Headmaster, changed the shape of his Patronus.

The song had ended long before he roused himself from those memories.

Moony, reassured that his cub had not forgotten him and that he had brought her enough peace to sleep properly, ceded to Lupin's reasserted dominance and physically withdrew. The last Marauder and were-wizard left the room once it was apparent that Miss Granger's subconscious-fueled anxiety had abated. Lucius, too, had taken his leave, most likely to see about Potter's discomfort. Someone, most likely Draco, had put Keegan's portrait face-down on the end table as to preserve his godfather's privacy.

It was just him and Draco, the boy who had long been the son of his heart.

"Welcome back, Uncle."

Severus nodded, the near dark created by the lone candle a convenient veil for his un-Slytherin introspections.

Draco's hand came to rest on his shoulder. Severus still found it difficult to be touched. Through the guidance provided by his Mind Healer and his own determination, he'd come to acknowledge that under the right circumstances, human touch was a vital component to living the kind of life he deserved to live. One of Dilys' greatest acts of healing was when she personally sought out the one Mind Healer that could treat all five of them: himself, Draco, Potter, Lucius, and Lupin. For the first three years, they all saw the Healer twice a week. Over the past two years, his sessions had been reduced to once a week. Severus could see a future where his visits to this Mind Healer occurred only a couple of times a year.

"For a long time, Uncle, I was afraid that you wouldn't."

Severus knew Draco wasn't referring to his most recent lapse, enchanted as he was by the werewolf's nurturing Pack magic.

His emotional and psychological recovery from more than twenty years of abuse, manipulation, and subjugation was riddled with set-backs. At one point during that first year, Keegan had traveled to Malfoy Manor to summon Lucius and Draco when it appeared that Severus wouldn't let himself live through the night.

He was past that, now. He _had_ been victimized, on so many levels. There was no shame in admitting that fact. The shame belonged to the wizards and men, physically stronger and more magically powerful than he, who took away his ability to choose; they who made _him_ live _their_ life-choices. But now he knew, and accepted, the difference between taking responsibility for his actions and acts of cruelty inflicted under the guise of Dumbledore's 'redemption' and Voldemort's 'retribution'.

A sly almost-grin revealed the few laugh lines that framed the outer edges of his eyes. "Your children will receive the same speech you did, Draco, when they cross the threshold of my laboratory for the first time."

Draco's silent gratitude traveled down to the fingers that gave Snape's shoulder a squeeze.

He looked up at the pensive expression on his godson's face. He could understand Draco's reticence. It wasn't easy knowing that, even without meaning to, one created so much pain for someone who was so important to one's well-being. Draco reminded him of himself, as he all but slept outside the Fat Lady's portrait as he waited to plead for Lily's forgiveness.

Thank Merlin and Salazar that his days of such voluntary debasement were behind him.

"Would you like some time alone with her?"

Draco nodded. His thoughts centered on the best way to approach the sleeping woman.

Then, he shook his head. "No. Stay?"

Severus nodded.

Draco looked so like his father, he even moved like Lucius. The Veela pulled at the bedcovers, erasing the indentations Lupin left behind. That possessive reflex made Severus smirk. His godson didn't _Scourgify_ Lupin's scent, not when it brought his mate a modicum of peace.

"Did you know that I have one, untainted, memory of her?"

Severus was surprised at his godson's admission. He was moved that the younger man would share such a treasure. He knew for a fact that it was a point of contention between Draco and Potter that every memory Draco possessed of the girl was contaminated by some sort of unseemliness. School yard taunts spoiled what could've been isolated moments of mutual consideration. Classroom competitiveness soured what could've been moments of academic fellowship. Coveting what he couldn't have and unable to reconcile her obvious accomplishments with Pureblood dogma stained his remaining memories of Miss Granger.

"We once shared a dish of ice cream."

Ahhh… That's why Draco asked him to stay. After so many mistakes, he needed someone other than his own or his father's permission to do something that he feared could very well backfire on all of them.

There was no guile in his godson's grey eyes nor was there any trace of blame towards the witch for what had happened earlier.

"I think that a good dream is something every witch is entitled to, Draco."

Severus watched as Draco leaned forward and ever so lightly touched his formidable wand, a brother to the one Potter carried and a match to the one that awaited Miss Granger, to the witch's brow. A slight vibration of non-verbal magic was all he sensed as Draco channeled his one good memory into the girl's subconscious.

Severus stood when Draco ended his spell. He righted Keegan's portrait so that the painting could keep watch over the young woman.

He waited by the door and pretended not to hear Draco's promise to the sleeping Muggleborn.

"You thought well of me once. I'll give you every reason to do so again."

His godson's campaign to earn his mate had commenced.

:

:

Hermione Granger knew she had to be dreaming; except it was vastly different from her usual type of dream. For starters, it was as if she was dreaming through someone else's eyes. If she didn't know better, she'd say that she wasn't dreaming as much as she was watching someone else's memory in a Pensieve…

_June 12, 1991_

_Diagon Alley_

He'd been waiting for this day for YEARS! Now, he was even MORE like his dad, because now he had his very first _wand_. Hawthorn, because his birthday was in June, and a unicorn – unicorn! – core. Uncle Severus was going to be so impressed! Even his dad commented, out loud and in front of old Ollivander himself and everyone else that was in the store, on the unusual wood-and-core combination and told all of them how proud he was that his son's wand was so powerful. Not only that, but his dad had set aside the whole afternoon for them to spend together. Talk about the best birthday present – ever! A wand and his dad, all in the same day. His dad even promised to take him for ice cream as they waited for Quality Quidditch Supplies to start the demonstration of the latest racing broom – the Nimbus 2000 – that was due to be released in just a couple of months. Being eleven years-old was _loads_ better than being ten years-old.

The actual day of his birthday hadn't been nearly as much fun or exciting. There was a party, and friends, and people he didn't know, presents, and a fancy dinner served on the South Lawn underneath a really big tent. There were separate Quidditch games for the grown-ups, and for him and the guests that were closer to his age. It was all so very…formal. They were Malfoys, and like Mother and Father say time and again, Malfoys always behave in the manner that is fitting to their station.

Even today… Draco didn't run, skip, or chatter endlessly. His mimicked how his dad – Father – walked, talked, and looked at everyone as if everyone should want to be like them but couldn't because they weren't Malfoys. He'd decided _years_ ago that one day, he was going to carry a cane too. Except his was going to have a dragon's head instead of a snake's head.

The line at Fortescue's was fairly long. Lots of wizards and witches were out and about in the summer sun. Hogwarts had finished for the year and both Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had also completed their spring terms. He was really glad that Mother had convinced Father not to send him to Durmstrang. How could he learn to be a Slytherin, like Father and Uncle Severus, if he didn't attend Hogwarts?

He discretely tugged at his father's sleeve. His dad arched an eyebrow at his slightly plebeian behavior, but didn't chide him for it. Instead, he waited for Draco to say what he was thinking.

"Thank you, Father. I'm having the best birthday day with you."

"Likewise." His dad, for just a moment, was his dad, and not Father as he gave him a brief but indulgent smile.

A voice coming from somewhere near to where he and his dad stood surprised him.

"I'm sorry – I didn't mean to eavesdrop. Well, I did eavesdrop. Of course I did; I wouldn't have heard you otherwise, would I? What I mean to say is that I didn't _deliberately_ mean to listen in on your conversation. But I did and there's nothing to say but, 'sorry'. But, seeing as how I _did_ hear you – even if it _was_ unintentional – I wanted to wish you a happy birthday!"

"How did you do that?" Draco wondered as he scanned the people around him for the owner of the voice that put unnecessary emphasis on every pronoun and every verb in every sentence.

"Do what?"

"Say all that without breathing?"

She laughed. She gave up her place in the queue and walked over to him. Her steps were small and measured and confident, just like Mother's.

"Why'd you give up your place?" Draco asked. She was closer to the ice cream and she, clearly, wanted ice cream. Malfoys never did that; Father always said that a Malfoy always did what they had to do to get what they wanted.

She was small for her age, just like he was. But Mother, Father and Uncle Severus assured him that in a year or two he'd have his first growth spurt and that in time, he'd be just as tall as his dad.

"To wish you, 'Happy Birthday', of course." She twisted her hands together and looked a bit sheepish. "Mother would rap my knuckles if she knew I continued to shout like I did." She shook her head, a set of thick braids, one on each side of her ears, swung with her movement.

Draco could understand that. There were times when he didn't act like his dad, and his mother was always quick to remind how a gentleman should behave.

"I'm Hermione, by the way." She quickly tucked one foot behind the other and, because of the crowd, abbreviated her curtsey.

"Draco." Due to the crowd, he too, managed only the shallowest of bows.

They both laughed at that. A quick glance at his dad showed that even Father approved of their little show of manners.

"Well, Birthday Boy Draco… I've decided that you have to let me buy you a Birthday ice cream."

That didn't sit well with him. In all his eleven years, he'd never seen Father allow Mother to pay for anything.

She picked up on his sudden change in mood. She clucked an, 'oh, _honestly'_, under her breath and then marshaled her arguments. "Your friends, they brought you presents – didn't they?"

"Yes." Blaise brought him cracking new flight gloves and matching dragon-hide gauntlets. Theo's gift of a trio of matched Golden Eagle quills was tops. But still, to let her buy him an ice cream…

"Well, if I was your friend and I went to your birthday party, would you refuse a gift I'd bought for you?"

He didn't want to imagine the look on Mother's face if she saw him refuse a gift, regardless of whether or not he liked it. And, he really did like ice cream. "No, I wouldn't."

He missed the look of amusement his father now sported as he watched his son be 'manipulated' into accepting an ice cream.

Draco didn't miss the subtle gesture his father made to gently usher his new friend forward. They were almost at the front of the queue.

"Draco?"

"Yes, Father?" Just as he'd been taught to do, Draco answered his father without completely turning away from the person he was speaking with.

"Perhaps a compromise? If she were to pick the flavors…"

Draco relaxed. He could do that. His dad thought it was okay for her to buy him an ice cream; therefore, he could allow her to do so. But he had one condition that he absolutely insisted upon. "When it's your birthday, you have to let me buy you an ice cream."

"Oh, no, that won't do at all!" Hermione seemed genuinely dismayed.

Draco didn't know what to say! His suggestion was honorable! Even his dad frowned at his new friend's outburst.

She quickly backpedalled when she realized that what she'd just said didn't match what he'd just said. "Of course you can! I'd love to have a birthday ice cream with you!"

"Why were you so upset, then?" He didn't understand. He was a smart wizard but this witch seemed to be two thoughts ahead of his most current thought.

"I wasn't upset with you. I was upset at the number six."

That explanation didn't make any sense to him. Nor did he understand why she suddenly looked so relieved.

They were now at the front of the line. She positively beamed as she explained her idea.

"Each ice cream is made of three scoops, right? You order three scoops of what I like and I'll order three scoops of what you like. Then, we'll ask Mr. Fortescue to put all the scoops in a dish so that we can share!"

A sudden thought made her frown. But her follow-up thought made her smile again. Draco decided that even if her front teeth were a bit big, he liked it when she smiled like that.

"Seven is a very magical number isn't it? And if you get three scoops and I get three scoops, that'd be only six and not seven. So, because it's your birthday, you get to pick out the seventh scoop! Not to mention that you'll have a four, and I'll have a three. Both of which are also very magical numbers. Yes, that'll do quite nicely. That way, we'll have a seven and not a six."

Draco knew that his dad always paid special attention to Arithmancy. So, to hear that Arithmancy was important to his new friend pleased him to no end.

With the same air of respect and consideration Father gave Mother, Draco escorted Hermione to the counter. He scowled at an older wizard who nearly squashed her small foot while she was counting out her coins. Luckily for her he took his gentlemanly duties seriously. He cupped her shoulders and shifted her out of the clumsy wizard's path. So focused on selecting the correct combination of sickles and knuts in preparation for placing their order, she gave him the briefest of smiles at his attentiveness. He mirrored her grin when the ice-cream maker's cashier told her she 'did it' perfectly.

The dish that Mr. Fortescue passed to them was quite full but manageable. It was the biggest ice cream he'd ever seen! He was glad that Hermione didn't fight him over who should carry it to the table where Father indicated they should sit. He appreciated the fact that she thought to collect spoons and napkins for them so that he wouldn't have to backtrack to get them. Mother was like that, too. The two glasses of water she carried were unexpected additions.

"I don't know about you, but I always get so thirsty when I eat ice cream," she casually explained as she set the glasses on the table.

Draco didn't, but if she needed water with her ice cream, then she should have water with her ice cream.

He pulled out her chair but he wasn't quite strong enough – yet! – to slide it and her closer to the table, like Father did for Mother. She smiled at his attempt to do so and simply scooted herself into place as he took his seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that his dad had chosen a smaller table nearby for himself and ordered the waitress to bring him a copy of the Daily Prophet. The barely-there wink Father sent his way meant that his dad approved of his new friend and something else he didn't quite 'get'. Maybe Uncle Severus would explain it to him when he came over for dinner tomorrow.

He knew what the scowl on his father's face meant – he'd been so focused on his thoughts that he was ignoring his friend!

He faced her. He noticed that her elbows were off the table, her dangling ankles were crossed, and her spoon wasn't overly full. She deserved his respect and he would make sure he gave it to her.

He didn't remember everything she'd recently said, but she did mention school.

"My letter arrived last week, on my actual birthday." Draco informed her. "I'll be attending Hogwarts in the autumn."

He was proud of the way that he said that to her. It sounded exactly the same way as when Father informed his business associates as to where his son had been accepted.

"Me too!" She all but squirmed at the prospect of starting school. "My letter arrived almost a year ago! I've read all my school books multiple times. To think – I actually have a _wand_!"

Draco could understand her excitement. There was _nothing_ like giving his wand its very first swish-and-flick. "I got one, too. Father took me to get it just a little while ago."

"You have to do that, too?"

"Do what?"

"Call your mum 'Mother' and your dad 'Father'."

Draco shrugged and swallowed his mouthful of Chocolate Caramel Delight. "Father told me a while ago that when I reached my first Magical Age Marker, I'd be expected to change the way I addressed him. Mother, though, has always been 'Mother', only now, it's like the 'M' is even more capitalized."

She nodded. She understood. "Daddy said the same thing. Except that, he told me that it would be 'okay' if I occasionally slipped, because that meant, to him, that I'd always be his little girl." She dipped her spoon into a scoop of sparkly-blue ice-cream – one of his selections called Blueberry Cobbler – and peered at it contemplatively before tasting it. Somewhat pleased with the flavor, she ate the rest of what was on her spoon and delved into mound of pistachio. "I liked hearing that."

Father had never said that to him in so many words, but Draco felt it to his soul that his dad wouldn't punish him for an honest mistake.

She set down her spoon and had a drink of water. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin and glanced at his sleeve. "Let's see it, then."

"See what?" He was fairly sure she wanted him to show her his wand, but he wasn't certain. He drew his wand from his brand new wrist-holster anyway and set it near her side of the ice cream dish.

She was most unusual. Her manner and carriage were exactly like Mother's; between Hermione and Pansy and Daphne, his childhood acquaintances came a close second behind his new friend, but neither of those two girls thought as fast as she did or traded conversation subjects with every breath they took. In fact, the way she spoke, the way she put special emphasis on every pronoun and verb would've made his other friends say unkind things about her. To him, she sounded like someone who was confident, smart, and brave to make a new friend while standing in queue to buy an ice cream should sound.

"You think differently from everyone else I know."

Her grin faded. She was looking down at the dish of ice cream instead of at him. He didn't like that at all.

"I didn't mean to make you feel bad."

She sighed as she accepted his round-about apology. "I know."

Her overbite captured her bottom lip as she thought about whether or not she'd tell him why she thought his compliment was an insult.

"I heard my dad's secretary tell her friend that it was a good thing that I was so smart, because it would make up for the fact that I'm not…" She stared at the ice cream pooled in her spoon as she finished her sentence. "I'm not very pretty."

As she did earlier, Draco set down his spoon and neatly wiped his mouth with his napkin. Just as he'd seen his Uncle Severus do, he leaned back in his chair and really looked at his new friend.

Her manners and unusualness were what drew him to her in the first place. She didn't bore him and she definitely kept him entertained. Her warm weather clothing was unfamiliar, but the quality and cut of her summer-weight robe was excellent. He'd skulked about Mother's parties and had been paraded in front of The Ladies often enough to know that not all witches or wizards dressed the same.

Just as Uncle Severus would, he told her his honest opinion. "Your teeth are a bit too big for your mouth and, since your hair is pulled back into braids, I can't really say anything about it except that you seem to have a lot of it. But other than that, you seem pretty to me."

She smiled at that. She twisted in her seat and pried open her handbag. "Everyone tells me I look exactly like my mum when she was my age. So I think I can safely say that I'll look like her when I grow up." From it, she took out something. "Want to see her picture?"

"Sure." He needed a bit of a break from all the ice cream he'd eaten and he was genuinely curious to see her mother. He snuck a look at his father. Who non-verbally agreed to his silent question. If he or his dad recognized the woman then formal introductions between their families could be made.

For a Wizarding picture taken in Diagon Alley, everyone seemed to be standing very still. From the decorations posted on the storefronts in the background, it was around the time of Samhain. He looked at the well-dressed woman and the man who stood next to her, who had every appearance of being Hermione's father, and then he looked at Hermione.

"She's a very pretty woman. But I think you'll be prettier."

The light was back in her eyes and her grin returned.

Draco indicated to where his father sat, still reading the Prophet. "That's my dad. Can I show him?" She nodded and he passed the picture to Lucius. While he waited for Father to give him a 'yes' or a 'no', he told her, "When I grow up, I'm going to be just like him."

Draco hid his disappointment when he saw Father pass the picture of the girl's parents with a subtle shake of his head.

She did for him what he'd done for her before she re-tucked the picture into her bag. "You're going to be quite good-looking when you get older. Even more so than you are now." Her expression turned thoughtful as she responded to the fact that Draco hadn't just been talking about how he was going to look when he grew up. "Draco, I think that parents should be excellent role models. But Mum and Dad have always told me that that I should always be myself, whoever that might be. I think you should be yourself, too."

He resettled his napkin over his lap and pushed his spoon into a partially melted scoop of iridescent yellow ice cream. Lemon Sunshine was one of the flavors she had selected and he liked it. "My dad is the best. There's no one better. And Malfoys are always the best. So, to be the best, I have to be just like my dad."

"I get that. I really do."

He could tell that she really did understand, but he could hear a 'but' coming.

"But I kind of like knowing that I'm different from my mum. My dad plays golf and I hate golf. I don't think I could pretend to like golf just so that I could say that I was just like my dad."

Draco didn't comment. She just didn't know Lucius Malfoy.

His next spoonful scraped against the bottom of the glass dish. He didn't like that sound. That meant that his time with his friend was almost over.

"Want to see something?"

Draco could help but smile at the mischievous, 'I'm going to share a secret with you', look on her face. "Okay."

Before he could stop her, she nestled _his _brand-new wand in her palm. She pointed it at his spoon. Her eyes narrowed as she concentrated. "All my books say that _intent_ is the power behind magic. So that means that it's my job to tell my magic what I want it to do."

"It's a little more complicated than that." Draco watched as his spoon scraped up the last of the uneaten ice cream and floated towards him. In the background, his father watched with intense interest at the control the witch exercised over the piece of cutlery using his son's wand.

"Mother tells me that I have a _terrible_ habit of paraphrasing. I told her she was mistaken, even though I wasn't entirely sure what that word meant until I looked it up." She shook her head at her experience with over-confidence. "I owed her Bragging Rights for a week!"

The laden spoon hovered without a tremor or verbal command. It sailed towards him.

"Birthday boys always get the last bite!"

Draco smiled at that and then opened his mouth just enough for Hermione to slide the spoon between his lips. With a very un-Malfoy like flourish, he brandished the now-clean spoon.

Talk about the best birthday ever! And, he'd yet to see the broom demonstration!

His father somehow picked up on his thoughts. He put down his newspaper and 'officially' joined on his conversation. "We have just enough time to stop by Eeylops so that your friend can Owl her parents and inform them that they've been invited to dine with us at the Manor."

Hermione's regret was sincere. "I wish I could. But if I don't leave soon, I'll never catch the last bus home." That mischievous half-grin-half-frown 'I-got-away-with-something-but-I-only-feel-a-littl e-guilty' of hers re-emerged. "My parents don't exactly know that I'm here."

Draco was very surprised to hear that. To deceive one's parents was akin to defying them. If there was one thing Draco really tried hard to do, it was to obey Mother and Father.

"I left them a note that read I was picking up some school supplies."

"But you said that you'd already read all our First Year books." Draco recalled that part of their conversation perfectly.

"I did say that. And I _have_ read all the First Year books… and Second Year books." She looked up at father and son through a fringe of dark lashes and muttered, 'got those at Christmas', then she blushingly admitted, "I snuck into Diagon Alley today, so that I could buy Third Year texts and spell books."

Father transferred his cane to his right hand and gripped the snake-head firmly as he stood. "Well then, Draco. I think we should accompany the young lady to Flourish and Blotts so that she can get home before her parents have a chance to worry."

"I agree, Father." He turned to Hermione and helped her to stand. "Would you like some company?"

"I'd like that." She switched from looking at him to looking at where their hands were still connected. "Your hands!"

"What about them?" Draco looked to his dad in alarm, like there was something physically wrong with him that needed healing.

"They're warm!"

That didn't make any sense. "They're always warm."

"No. You don't understand. Ever since my eleventh birthday, every hand I've touched that isn't my parents' has felt cold. Yours is the first hand I've touched in almost a year that's felt warm!" Her endearing sheepish smile was back. "I'm glad it's yours that feels warm."

She never let go of his hand during the half hour it took for him to escort her to the bookstore and for her to pay for her selections.

Draco wasn't ready to say good-bye just yet. "You know, the Knight Bus doesn't have a set schedule. You can summon it anytime."

He swore that she had a smile, grin, frown, or a laugh for every expression and emotion she possessed. Right now, the grin on her face was because she thought he was teasing her, but in a good way.

"As far as I know, there's no bus _just_ for Knightsbridge. I should know; I live on the Belgravia side of Knightsbridge. But when I get home, I'll double-check, just to be sure. I would hate to think," she teased with another one of her 'dedicated to the moment' grins, "what _you'd _do if I ended up owing you Bragging Rights."

"Why'd you say that?" Draco didn't want his friend to think that he'd never be anything but a gentleman to her.

"Because I'd never want you to have a reason to treat me like everyone else."

Her sincerity held no sting, so her answer hadn't hurt his feelings. But, the way her eyes sparkled didn't make him feel happy or good inside either.

"If you had Bragging Rights, Draco, then that would mean that, for that one instance, you would've been better than me. And that would put me in with everyone else, who you act like you're better than."

"Malfoys _are_ better than everyone. And, well, you seem like you talk down to everyone." For once, he didn't respond defensively, but he hadn't been gracious either. Mother had told him time and again that he needed a lot more practice at accepting constructive criticism graciously.

She didn't call him on his faux-pas. If anything she looked down-right smug that he'd figured out what she'd been saying all along. "And _that's_ why we're equals. According to you, I think everyone is below me and you're better than everyone else. Ergo, we're the only ones good enough for each other!"

He preened at her declaration. Even Father smiled, _in public!_.

She leaned towards him. A moment after she did it, he realized that she'd hugged him and kissed his cheek.

"Happy Birthday, Draco. If I don't see you until school starts, I hope you have a good summer."

:

:

The first thing she noticed when she woke up was that she was on her back. She almost never slept on her back. She was a side sleeper most of the time; if she was really tired her face became one with her pillow.

The second thing she noticed was that there was a warm weight on her stomach. A large, heavy, warm weight.

The third thing she noticed, once she cracked open her eyes, was a pair of yellow eyes staring at her.

Groggy due to the sedative Kostas had injected into her body, she struggled to sit up. She made it as far as bracing her upper body on her elbows when the pressure of sharp claws against her abdomen halted her progress. That, and the pressure she felt coming from the right side of chest and a second, separate, strain from her shoulder.

That's when she recognized who – _what_ – it was that was trying to keep her from getting up.

"Crooks? Is that you?"

The enigmatic blink of the half-kneazle's yellow eyes and the motorbike drone of the answering purr could only belong to her beloved familiar.

The sling looped over her neck didn't stop her. She scooped him up, ignored the dizziness that nearly swamped her vision, and cradled him to her chest. She hadn't seen him in so long! His fur smelled just as it always did and it was just as soft and as dense as she remembered. If anything, his purr had become deeper and louder as he repeatedly pressed his head against her. The last time she'd seen his bandy-legged handsomeness was at the Burrow. She had danced with Viktor at Bill's wedding. One of the most honorable men she knew, Viktor had agreed to take care of Crookshanks if anything ever happened to her. With Crooks' approval, of course – her familiar was a lot like her; he didn't do anything without a reason or being told 'why'. Her chin had trembled and her eyes had watered as she'd explained to the extra-large orange-striped feline that the reason why there'd be a good chance that he'd be chasing garden gnomes outside of Sofia. As her familiar, Crooks could be used to track her magical signature. A small consolation to both Kneazle and witch was that as she and Viktor shared a connection, Crookshanks could stay connected to her vicariously through the burly Bulgarian's magical signature.

The postcard her parents received a month after she'd fled with Harry and Ron, a generic seascape with a Crookshank's unique five-toed paw-print on the back, was the only proof required to know that the once Tri-Wizard Champion had kept his promise to safeguard the half-Kneazle.

The events of the last day came rushing at her. Crookshanks clung to her shirt and purred louder, his claws anchoring him without breaking her skin as her panic built inside her.

"Breathe, _Mila_."

That voice!

She swung her head to the right.

No longer seated in one of the armchairs, Viktor Krum – older, broader, and with longer hair than she remembered – was on his feet and striding towards her.

"Get away from me!" She curled her arms around Crookshanks protectively. The nightmare that had started the day before was still happening! Not only had she been captured, but they'd used Crookshanks to do it!

She tilted sideways a bit as she slid off of the bed; her balance was wonky. He moved, as if to catch her if she fell – as if she was going to let _that_ happen. Her grim expression of, 'don't even think about it', stopped him coming any closer. She kept the man who looked like her friend in her direct line-of-sight as she found her footing.

"_Mila_, it's me." He didn't speak to her as if she were a child. He spoke with the sisterly love he harbored for her as if he were the real Viktor. "No vone is going to hurt you. No vone _vants_ to hurt you."

It would be so easy to give into him. The Imposter that was in front of her was good, she'd give him that. She could almost see the history that existed between her and Viktor in the Death Eater's eyes.

She tipped a disgruntled Crookshanks to the carpet. Once again, she shrugged out of her sling and flung it aside. Her shoulder hurt, but pain would be the least of her worries if she couldn't escape. She'd fought back last night and all but won when Kostas drugged her. There'd be no reason why she couldn't do it again.

The Impersonator advanced towards her.

She angled her body so that he'd always be in front of her. Kostas might have betrayed her, but his lessons were sound: she couldn't fight what she couldn't see.

A yowl from Crookshanks distracted her.

In that split second, the Impersonator was on her back. Two densely muscled arms expertly immobilized her entire upper body.

Adrenaline surged through her body, cancelling her aches. Her panic morphed into terror.

An inhuman screech clawed at her throat. She thrashed. She kicked her feet and threw her head from side-to-side. She didn't hold back. Anything she did might be enough for her escape his hold.

"_Mila_ – stop! You're safe! Believe me, please!"

Her leg – she somehow lifted it high enough so that her heel struck the back of his knee. They both spilled to the carpet. She cried out when the impact jarred her shoulder. As quickly as he'd captured her, she was back on her feet. She lost her footing when another wave of dizziness swamped her equilibrium.

His arms were back around her, looped low, wrists hooked over her tailbone and elbows bracketing her waist. She was dragged to his considerable chest face-first.

"I can prove to you. Vhat I am vho I say I am!" He was a bit breathless, but not angry.

Why wasn't he angry?!

She arched her back, putting as much space between their noses as the length of his arms would allow. "There's nothing you can say that'll make me believe you!"

One of his hands came up and cupped the side of her head. He didn't strike her when she spat in his face. He simply wiped away the spittle by dragging the inside face of his bicep across his cheek.

"_Mila_ – the Tri-Vizard Tournament," the Impersonator once more tried to tell her his fabricated story.

"Everyone knows that Viktor Krum competed. Rita Skeeter made sure that everyone knew that I dated the Bulgarian Bon-Bon."

His sizable thigh wedged between her knees was enough to prevent her from doing to him what she did to Imperious'ed Harry or Polyjuiced Harry last night. That didn't mean she was going to stop trying.

"Ve never dated, _Mila_."

This Impersonator had done his homework. "That wouldn't be too difficult to uncover."

"_Mila_ – you are the only vone who knows the reason vhy I became Durmstrang delegate and real reason vhy I vas so happy chosen as Champion."

"No, no, no – _no_!" She shook her head, she didn't – couldn't – _wouldn't_ – believe what this doppelganger was spouting.

"_Da_, _Mila_. _Da_! You are the only vone vho knows that I came to Hogvarts to kill Albus Dumbledore."

.

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Chapter End Notes:

Anyone ever wondered why an accomplished, famous, athlete, who already had enough 'fame and glory' and Galleons to last a lifetime, would've even taken a year off from a professional Quidditch career, traveled all the way to Scotland, and competed in the Tri-Wizard Tournament? I have. And the only 'plausible' explanation I came up with was: plot-line of convenience.

In 'The Book Which I Loathe The Most In The HP Series', we learn that Grindewald caused the death of Viktor's grandfather. In thinking about that timeline, Dumbledore would've been with Grindewald at that time. And, we all know what Dumbledore would do 'for the greater good'. And, with Viktor unable to reach Grindewald, I could definitely see him taking the opportunity the Tournament afforded to finally earn a bit of justice for what his family suffered.

Gotta love fan-fiction - heh?

* * *

Please - Reveiw? Writers are approval junkies and my 'approval' habit is far from being in recovery. Writers thrive on knowing what you all think of words and ideas that they've cobbled together and how those words/ideas/storyline/characters are received. I *hangs head* am no different.

So, please?, review? THANK YOU!


	6. Chapter 6

**To Earn Hermione Jane**

* * *

Summary:

In the wake of the final battle against Voldemort, Hermione Granger left the Wizarding world.

Five days later, two men - life-long enemies - realized why they had such a bitter rivalry and that she was one witch they can't - and won't - live without.

Now, Harry and Draco have seven years to:

1. Find her

2. Woo her

3. Woo each other

4. Settle the past

5. Facilitate a future for the three of them within the Wizarding world

If they fail, they'll succumb to the Black Family Curse, a Curse that destroyed Bellatrix and nearly claimed a teen-aged Sirius: sociopathic madness

If they succeed, Harry, Draco and Hermione - together - will have the kind of love, and lives, that'll inspire bards and composors for generations.

The clock started ticking ten days ago... and they have no idea where to start.

.

* * *

**WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SLASH LEMONS**

* * *

Chapter 6

.

"Da, _Mila_. That is vhy you were vere taken. Remember? You vere 'that vhich I'll miss the most'." Viktor paraphrased that particular line of the Merpeople's song. "It vas because of you that I kept my head all those months; you vere vhy I didn't complete the Blood Rights I claimed against Albus Dumbledore for vhat he and Gellert Grindelwald did to my _grandfather_, my _family_."

Anxiety corrupted the shape of her eyes and mouth. Her breathing accelerated. He didn't like the pallor of her skin. She was exhaling too fast for much-needed oxygen to sustain her. But he needed her to accept that he was who he said he was.

"You – you charged at me, von morning by lake, after dragon task. I had just come out of vater, devil egg under my arm. Novone vas around – just a fifteen-year old girl poking her finger at my chest, demanding to know vhy Lionel Messi would bother to kick football around vith school kids vhen Quidditch season vas about to start. That vas why you seemed so interested in me, vhy you vere there vhen I put my name in Goblet."

He vividly remembered every moment of her confrontation.

"I pushed you aside, to valk avay, svim back to Durmstrang ship, vhen you Petrified me from feet to neck. I fell, half in shallow vater half on beach. Fifteen year-old girl got drop on _me_, Viktor Krum, best Seeker in league and Tri-Vizard champion!" He dared to be a bit self-deprecating before he resumed his plea for acceptance. "You said that after facing down vere-volf, hunting basilisk, and vinning giant chess game, I'd vished Chinese Fireball had eaten me if reason vhy I vas at Hogvarts vas to hurt Harry Potter."

He willed her to see the past they shared through his eyes, his memories. A Valkyrie masquerading as a bushy-haired school-girl, ankle-deep in the Black Lake, back-lit by the early-morning sun, wand pointed at his heart; too smart to be considered feral and too powerful not to be taken seriously as she accused him of being the latest in a string of assailants sent to hurt her best friend. How he, Viktor Krum, with endorsements, Chocolate Frogs, and action-figures, couldn't possibly need the measly thousand-galleon prize money the tournament offered or how the accolade of being the winner of the Tri-Wizard Tournament couldn't possibly trump the title, 'Quidditch's Best Seeker'.

"So I told you everything. How I vas at Hogvarts for Dumbledore and not Potter. Dumbledore murdered my grandfather so I'd murder Dumbledore. I had sworn Blood Rights against Dumbledore because Grindelwald vas already in prison and untouchable. How Dumbledore's and Grindelwald's 'tovards better society' involved sacrificing my grandfather, Bledi Marjovanka, and expecting him to be glad about it. How my grandfather took his own life – the back-door murder Grindelwald and Dumbledore committed – instead of doing vhat they told him to do. How, because my grandfather's suicide forced them to abandon their plans, they spread rumours about my family. Rumours that sixty-eight years later still plague my family, making difficult for vomen to get good husbands, for men to succeed in business and politics, and the reason vhy I fly using my mother's un-married name. I convinced Karkaroff vhat all I vanted to be vas Champion – to redeem my family's name by, 'bringing honor and glory to Durmstrang'."

He paused to cradle the side of her face with a calloused palm; a measure of tenderness to counteract the venom in his voice as he repeated a story he'd told her nearly nine years ago.

"You believed me. You lifted spell and helped me to stand, like Valkyrie resurrecting vounded varrior. You said that you had your own reasons to believe that things vere not always as they appeared at Hogvarts, in the Vizarding vorld; that I could count on you to keep my secret, vat ve'd become friends, confidants."

He hated that song, the one inside that devil egg.

_Come seek us where our voices sound,_

_We cannot sing above the ground._

_And while you're searching ponder this:_

_We've taken what you'll sorely miss,_

_An hour long is you'll have to look,_

_And to recover what we took,_

_But past an hour – the prospect's black,_

_Too late, it's gone, it won't come back."_

_We've taken what you'll sorely miss, an hour long you'll have to look_… It was the realization of exactly who'd been planted at the bottom of the Black Lake as his 'hostage' and the time limit imposed that his focus during his shark transfiguration slipped and resulted in such a hideous blend of shark and wizard.

'What he'll sorely miss' wasn't a who – it was, literally, a 'what': the emotional grounding a fifteen year-old witch provided to an emotionally damaged wizard hell-bent on exacting revenge for wrongs committed against his family.

He played up his 'rescue' of his Yule Ball date for the equally-vile spectators that came to watch the Tasks when he surfaced, but afterwards… Afterwards, after he shook off Karkaroff, tossed-back ales with his friends, indulged the ridiculous Ludo Bagman reliving his 'glory days', pandered to his sponsors, posed for pictures with that horrible Skeeter woman and every other camera-toting photo-whore, and acknowledged the hangers-on, it was the small hours of the morning. He marched through the halls of Hogwarts, singular in his purpose and destination. His destination? The Headmaster's office. In his hand he carried one of the staves his Durmstrang brothers brandished with skill and showmanship in the Great Hall when they first arrived.

The magic imbued in the staves was deceptive in its nature. Its spacial distortion charms were enough, in the hands of a talented and determined witch or wizard, to 'shift' a living being to an astral-plane; a fate worse than death. The 'shifted' being would be neither solid nor ethereal and would live out the rest of its days being nowhere; trapped yet able to see, hear, but unable to interact with all that was around him/her.

In his opinion, it was a fate better than what Albus Dumbledore deserved. The vile wizard had taken away his family's honour, deprived him of his family's name, and had 'taken' – against her will – the one person he unfairly counted on to keep himself sane and out of wizarding prison.

She'd stopped him. She'd snuck out of her dorm, evaded her friends, and waited for him. Much like she'd done that morning by the lake when she'd first confronted him, she'd jabbed her wand at his chest and refused to let him take another step towards Dumbledore's office. He'd let her turn him around and shove him into an alcove along an adjacent corridor. In harshly whispered tones that were low enough so that the nearby portraits wouldn't wake, she'd berated him until the haze of retribution had lifted.

His Valkyrie had saved his life once again that cold February night. In his frame of mind, even with the staff, even with the element of surprise as a pivotal advantage, Viktor Krum would've lost any and all altercations with Albus Dumbledore. The ramifications of being caught trying to assassinate one of the more revered British wizards would've spurred an international incident, finished his family, and resulted in his soul being sucked out of him by a cadre of Dementors.

He gripped her with all the assurance he held in his heart. All of what Kostas had relayed to him in the hour since his arrival clued him into the fact that the one witch that was most dear to him was on the cusp of a full-blown panic attack.

He spoke to her softly in Bulgarian. "Breathe, _Mila_. Feel me; feel me breathe in, and breathe out. Listen to my breath. You are safe. You know I'd _never_ let anything happen to you."

Her all but imperceptible nod was more than what he expected. It meant that she accepted that he was who he said he was and that while she was with him she was, indeed, safe. She was still, though, caught up in all that had happened to her and had yet to calm herself. If anything, she clung to him in a way that was incongruous to what he knew of her nature. Her present state only proved just how rattled she truly was. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that if he'd been through what she'd been through over the past thirty-six hours, more than likely he'd be tied down to a bed and placed in a magically enhanced stupor until his mind melded with his unwanted, unwelcomed, new reality.

"Vik…Vik…tor… Get me out of here."

The Healer he'd spoken to had said that her dampeners couldn't be removed, but if he didn't get her out of the room, into fresh air and away from four constricting walls, she would hyperventilate herself into unconsciousness. With two very hyper-protective Veela nearby, it would be best if that were avoided.

"I vill, _Mila_." He stroked her hair and encouraged her to lean against him. One arm looped around her waist, the other, the one that slid along the back of her head now covered the ear that wasn't pressed against his chest. Firmly, but without shouting, he called for his elf. "Domo!"

Her shakes were becoming worse. It was as if his presence was fueling her panic attack. He knew it wasn't; it was her mind processing everything that had happened that was sending her hurtling into an emotional free-fall.

A brutish-looking elf whose entire body looked like it had been used as a washboard for carriage wheels materialized within his line-of-sight. "Yes, Master?"

"Domo?"

The elf had been in his family since the time of his grandfather, Bledi. Domo had endeared himself to the witch that was in Viktor's arms and the elf returned her affections. It had been Domo's niece who'd crafted the lovely periwinkle dress robes that Hermione had worn to the Yule Ball.

"Hello, Miss." Viktor admired the elf's mastery of the English accent. "Domo is very pleased to be seeing you after such a long time." The tips of his ragged ears tilted back as Domo respectfully inclined his head to his Master and the woman he held. Straightening, the house elf assessed one of his favourite witches. "Domo is not liking seeing you so distressed."

Viktor wholeheartedly agreed. His elf spoke several languages but right now Viktor needed the comfort of his mother tongue. "Domo – I have need of my broom."

Domo snapped his gnarled fingers and disappeared. A moment later, the elf reappeared. Braced against one wiry shoulder was a custom-crafted CloudRunner.

At the sight of the broom, Hermione's panic intensified. Still speaking in his native dialect, Viktor attempted to soothe her. "Just a little ride, _Mila_. I promise. Just long enough for me to get you out of here and then we'll land."

She nodded. The tears that once pooled above her lower lashes now spilled down her face. His Hermione wasn't one for such displays. He knew that her tears were more about her lack of control over the situation than anything else. A feeling that he well understood. He was not a spontaneous man by nature nor was he prone to emotional outbursts, unless he was in the thrall of a Quidditch game, regardless of where he was or how well he knew the people he was with.

She pressed her face into his chest, her hands on either side of her cheeks. He tightened his hold to prevent her from falling to her knees.

Domo assumed control of the broom so that Viktor could manage Hermione. Viktor shifted his stance so that the elf could levitate the broom and bring it into a mounting position. Once seated, Viktor brought the overwrought witch onto the broom side-saddle.

Intuitively anticipating his Master's needs, Domo Vanished the picture window. A rush of air, scented with the tang of salt water and early autumn, swirled around them. Hermione shivered. A warm cloak, courtesy of Domo, materialized around him and the witch that was curled into his body. Protected against the afternoon chill, Viktor pressed a kiss to the top of her head and fit his feet into the broom's stirrups. "_Mila_ – just hold on to me. I can't take you avay from here, but I can take you somevhere that isn't this room and away from those vho…"

He swallowed what he wanted to say. It wouldn't do her any good to hear him rail against the wizards who'd dragged her from her Muggle life, even if he thought that she'd been away from the magical world for far too long. What she needed was time and space to find her emotional equilibrium. He was more than familiar with that aspect of the human condition, having spent his youth planning another wizard's murder only to come to realize at the eleventh hour that vengeance was a double-edged sword. She'd been his anchor during that horrible year he'd spent at Hogwarts. The least he could do was do the same for her.

Kostas had explained the events that had led up to Viktor being contacted and hastily summoned to Scotland. Looking at the entire situation objectively, the witch that clung to his shirt would've been dead if the team that Severus Snape had dispatched hadn't interceded. Kostas would've died protecting her. In the hours after their respective burials, nothing and no one would've been able to stop Viktor from erecting a Persephone's Table, invoking Blood Rights, and pursuing each and every person he deemed responsible for their deaths. Of which would've included Potter and both Malfoys. But, that didn't happen. She still breathed. Kostas still breathed. It fell to him to do what her so-called Mates could not: soothe her tattered emotions.

He angled the broom. One arm held Hermione securely, his other hand guided the broom as he slowly flew through the empty window frame.

:

:

Only in the company of Snape, Remus, and Lucius did Harry and Draco feel comfortable displaying their mutual affections. Even then, they limited themselves to casual touches and gazes that lingered longer than what were absolutely necessary.

In private, they were guardedly tactile with one another.

Each knew, that with their witch, they'd be hard pressed to keep their hands off of her.

They just needed a chance to earn her trust, to let her realize the true scope of their intentions and affections.

Standing one in front of the other on the top-most balcony of the convalescent home, their lower halves completely hidden from view by the waist-high balustrade, Draco leaned his head back and onto Harry's cheek. The dark-haired Gryffindor pressed his chest onto Draco's back. He wrapped his arms low along Draco's hips and continued to pleasure his Bonded.

Neither wizard was predominately submissive or dominant. If anything each was a 'switch'; each willing and able to play off what the other needed the most in their moments of intimacy. At this moment, Harry needed to hold Draco so Draco allowed him to do so. That and Harry's hands had released the fastenings on his trousers, had pulled down his boxer-briefs, and were tugging firmly on his pubic hair. The sting felt so good… almost as good as the grip Harry used to stroke Draco's hard cock.

Far below and to the right of where they stood, a broom came to a halt underneath the swaying fronds of a willow tree. Harry's hands never stilled as they watched Viktor Krum touch-down and unobtrusively draw his wand. Two swishes and three flicks later, thick ropes of roots grew out of the ground. The roots twisted and twined until a sizable bench with a high back formed. With careful handling, Viktor transferred himself and Hermione off of the broom and onto the newly grown bench. He wrapped them both in his cloak. From where Draco and Harry stood, they could see the Bulgarian's grim expression drift towards where they stood as he simply held her while she cried.

The pace of Harry's fist rising and falling along the length of his prick quickened. As did the promises that Harry whispered in Draco's ear.

"There'll come a time when she'll no longer shed any tears, because we'll make sure of it."

Draco murmured in agreement; the cork-screw motion Harry added made Draco moan with pleasure.

"There'll come a time when she'll run to us instead of away from us."

Draco knew Harry was speaking as much for his own need for reassurance as he was reassuring Draco.

"Think of all the delicious things we'll be able to do to – and for – her for the rest of our lives."

Harry's lips latched on to the sensitive tendon just behind his ear. His Bonded kissed his way to the nape of his neck and nuzzled the space between the base of Draco's head and the top of his shirt's collar.

"Imagine her, on her knees, opening her mouth as I guide your cock past her teeth and over her tongue, her sweet breath warming your bollocks and the crack of your tight arse."

The image was intensely provocative. Draco could see her… mouth full, cheeks hollowed with fierce suction, hair fanned out around her shoulders, eyes glinting with desire, hands tracing the muscles of his legs before she slipped one set of fingers into her beautifully slick pink quim as her other hand was kept busy by lightly scraping her nails across her areolas…

Pre-cum seeped from the head of his cock. Eyes fixed on where some other wizard – one who held her trust and love – comforted his Mate, Draco allowed himself to envision what Harry was now describing: being impaled from behind by Harry; Harry's hand angling his cock for the witch perched on her knees to suckle, her little hands reaching up to pinch and twist his nipples as she bobbed her head…

Harry wouldn't fuck him. No. Harry would bury himself deep and hold their bodies tightly together. If anything, Harry would turn his head so that their Mate could see them kiss, tongue sliding against tongue, teeth nipping at lips, Adam's Apples flexing as they savored the taste of one another as she did the same to his rock-hard length and lapped at his sac…

She'd then stand…oh-so-close to him… She'd place her palm, moist and fragrant with his pre-cum, under his chin and draw his mouth away from Harry's and onto her own. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd see her lift one leg and hook her calf around both his and Harry's hips. Harry would hold her steady, providing leverage, as she shifted just enough to take him into her body. Like Harry, she wouldn't fuck him. She'd draw him deep into her and clamp her inner muscles around him – a carnal vise capable of separating his Slytherin-ness from his propriety. One of his hands would be buried in her hair, cupping the side her head to keep her in place, as his other arm spanned her narrow back. He'd hold her as tightly to him as Harry held him to his Bonded's body. She'd kiss him, again, and again, and again…..

"Oh…._fuck_!"

Flashes of light shattered the mental picture Harry invoked. A glorious body-wracking shudder accompanied every spurt of cum that flowed over the back of Harry's hand. Deft swipes from Harry's thumb wrung every drop from him. Spent, he slumped against Harry's chest and allowed the man behind him to support his weight.

Weakly, Draco reached behind him and threaded his hand into Harry's hair, massaging the other man's scalp. Soft, gentle, kisses fell on the side of his neck and the little bit of skin his shirt exposed along his collarbone. His other hand cradled the hand that was still loosely wrapped around his cock. He lifted that hand to his mouth and licked each and every one of Harry's cum-covered fingers clean. By Salazar, he loved the taste of his cum on his Bonded's body! He'd fantasized about what his Mate would taste like, and all the possible flavor combinations they could create between the three of them. Eyes closed, Draco sighed with contented satiation as Harry tucked him back into his boxer-briefs, refastened his impeccably tailored trousers, and re-hitched his belt buckle.

His sensual fog slowly dissipated. The anxiety that had spurred Harry to take him in-hand had abated but not the underlying cause. The arrival of Viktor Krum highlighted the fact that their witch had endeared herself to others who, though they couldn't provide her with the fully-realized life that he and Harry stood to offer, they could potentially offer her a _satisfying_ life. Their witch was known to have a Plan B and that's where Harry's and Draco's true fear had originated.

"They aren't lovers, Draco." Harry murmured in his ear. "The circle isn't closed between them."

"Not in that sense, no." Draco scowled.

"True." Harry spoke again about something the two of them had spent hours dissecting in the small hours of the night. "Don't borrow trouble, Draco. There's too much history between Snape and Remus for them to put their past aside."

"Not even for her?" Draco's skepticism rumbled across their bond. "Things between Severus and Lupin have been evolving, Harry. You've seen it too."

"I have. And yet, they work just as hard as we do to make sure we keep her."

"For us or for themselves?"

"What do you think, Draco?"

"I think there's a lot those two haven't told us." Draco drew in a deep breath and spent it on a moment of insecurity. "I think that Uncle Severus is a better man than I'll ever be."

"The man deserves a witch, a woman, _like_ her. But not her, per se. Hermione is meant for us as much as we're meant for her." Harry tightened his hold on him as Draco failed to let go of the suspicions his Slytherin nature held on to. "There's no doubt in my mind that she won't love him in the same way she'll love us."

"Are you saying that for my benefit or your own, Potter?"

"You tell me, Malfoy."

"I think an Unplotable Secret-kept island within the Magical Maldives for the foreseeable future is a viable option."

Draco didn't comment on the other potential triads that could involve their yet-to-be-claimed mate – save the most current threat: Krum and Dakova.

Focused once again on the couple underneath the willow tree, he was surprised to see that Dakova had joined Hermione and Krum. It wasn't the sight that blue duffle bag – the one slung across Dakova's back, the same one that Granger accepted with a too-calculating expression – that made Draco frown. It was the obvious connection between Krum and Dakova and Granger that made his Veela sit up and take notice.

"Krum is devoted to her. She's earned Dakova's loyalty and admiration. They do love her, each in his own way. And they have a…degree…of _brotherhood_ between Krum and Dakova. It wouldn't take much for them to fall in love with her or each other." Draco craned his neck so that he could make eye-contact with Harry. "I wouldn't be surprised if Krum wasn't already in love with her and has been suppressing it all these years."

Below them, Hermione glared at a hesitant but unrepentant Dakova. Krum's mouth moved, but his body language spoke of the Bulgarian defending Dakova. At least that's what Draco read when he saw Gryffindor's Princess push herself to her feet and turn her back on both of them.

Neither he nor Harry spoke as they watched her turn back around and flit her gaze between Krum and Dakova. Whatever it was that they'd said to her had brought tears to her eyes. She stood there, listening to what Krum and Dakova were telling her. She was fascinating to watch. Her expressions and gestures vacillated between anger, outrage, fear, and faith. With a lunge, she wrapped her arms around Dakova as the Serb smoothed her tousled hair and stroked her back. A blur of orange trotted up to the distraught witch and began to twine around her shins. The beast that Harry insisted was half-feline had joined Krum and Dakova.

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She grimaced with pain as she raised her arm to tuck her hair behind her ears. The homeliest house elf Draco had ever laid eyes on materialized and offered her a vial. Standing so far away, it was impossible to tell by the color of the potion what elf held out to her, but reason dictated it was some sort of pain reliever. Whatever it was, she didn't take it. Draco approved. Even his Veela approved. Not because he wanted to see his Mate suffer but because she was being smart. Ninety-seven percent of all pain-relieving potions contained some sort of narcotic component. Graciously, she inclined her head at the elf, who in turn bowed to her before vanishing.

Neither Draco nor Harry could see Dakova's face, so they couldn't read the man's lips, but whatever it was that the three who stood underneath the willow said to one another had Hermione nodding her head in resignation and grudging gratitude.

It was clear that over the course of the half-an-hour the three under the willow been talking she had forgiven the Serb and that Krum was a part of what was occurring between the three of them.

"What exists between those three matters but at the same time it doesn't matter; if _we_ don't acknowledge it, then we don't respect that part of _her_. Yet, her relationships with those two don't matter because we're the ones who're meant to be with her. Me and Hermione…We've loved each other since we were children. You've been drawn to her just as long. She'll love you. If we can do _this_," Harry suckled on the side of Draco's neck until Draco arched his back with the resulting pleasure/pain. He spoke into the love-bite that bloomed on Draco's pale skin, "with each other, there's every reason to believe that we'll be able to do the same with _her_."

"Love and sex are two different things."

Guilt thrummed between the two wizards.

"I know our first time was awful. It came about for all the wrong reasons. I'll spend forever making it up to you, Draco."

Draco didn't acknowledge Harry's pledge. Not because he was a cruel bastard, but for two other reasons. The first reason was that Harry's pledge came from the same place that a little four-year-old Harry had tried to make promises in an attempt to make the Dursley's forgive him so that they'd love him. Five years of therapy wasn't nearly long enough to undo the damage those repulsive Muggles had inflicted and there was no way in the Seven Hells that Draco was going to validate that kind of behaviour. The second reason was that there was nothing to forgive. What happened between them happened for all the wrong reasons, but it wasn't something that Harry had to apologize for, nor was it something Draco truly regretted.

Three and a half years ago, Harry was beyond tears, and suicidal. All the angst that came from having to deal with his Veela inheritance, the scope of Dumbledore's betrayals, the responsibilities that came with managing the estates of both his parents and Sirius Black, the alienation of the Weasleys, the absence of Granger from his life, finally confronting his grief over the death of people who'd died during his Hogwarts years, the horrifically complicated criminal pursuit of Dolores Umbridge, and his own internal conflicts stemming from years of mental and physical abuse at the hands of those who'd professed that they'd loved him the most, had pushed him to the breaking-point.

Draco had scrambled to follow Harry to Hermione's Haven. He'd found the dark-haired wizard pacing the length of the large room, manically ripping down whole sections of Granger's Harry Wall, as he ranted and raved about everything that had happened to him.

Draco immediately fired off a Patronus to Father, their Mind Healer, Severus and Lupin. In the midst of trying to keep Harry from applying slicing hexes to his wrists, Draco found himself – with his consent – bent over the cushions of Granger's sectional sofa, and whispering the lubrication charm seconds before Harry pried apart his arse and plowed into his unprepared anus.

Harry didn't last long. A cock-stand, one primed in anger and angst and prolonged abstinence, is quick to fire in friction's wake. Despite the pain at the dozen or so strokes Harry dealt, Draco felt his own prick harden, but he never came. What had happened between them wasn't for enjoyment. It wasn't rape either. The Healer, in the aftermath, explained it as 'an act of transition'. In an unhealthy way, Draco had proved to Harry that he wouldn't abandon him or run away from him. Harry, in an unhealthy way, had demonstrated to Draco that he trusted Draco with some of the darkest aspects of his psyche.

Sex between them had evolved into a substantially healthier, infinitely more sensual, exchange, but it had taken nearly a year before they could touch each other without evoking the despair that tainted their first time.

When they finally did reach a point where they could kiss and touch without flinching or hesitating, there was only one place they could possibly go: Hermione's Haven.

That night… When the clothes were off, the bedding kicked to the footboard, lips latched onto skin and pricks and scars and shoulders and necks and inner thighs, their magics entwined as they did. Tendrils of rose-gold energy swirled and connected to each of their chakra points. Each of them was warm, wet, and welcoming as they took turns sliding into each other's bodies.

For Draco, the most poignant moment came when Harry, perched on his lap, face-to-face, and with Draco's substantial cock buried to the hilt in Harry's arse, allowed his body to go slack. His head tilted back, his mouth parted, and his palms turned out; he looked like an enraptured supplicant basking in the carnal delight of his deity.

Draco supported Harry's weight by splaying his hands against the other man's shoulder blades and _pressed_ and _pressed_ and _pressed_ up and into Harry as he sat up straighter, braced against the headboard, so that Harry's cock glided sensuously on a bed of pre-cum between their stomachs. Harry Potter, someone who had no reason to trust anyone with anything for any reason, had surrendered to him, to their moment, to what they were doing and feeling with each other, as he allowed Draco to ride him. In the seconds before Harry was about to come was when Harry pulled Draco's mouth off of his nipple and onto his lips. Draco swallowed Harry's shout of completion and seven thrusts later, cried out his own.

Sweaty, out of breath, drops of cum on his stomach, and completely boneless, Draco slumped sideways across the bed and took Harry with him. They landed on Granger's pillows, Harry's head on his shoulder; her scent imbedded in the fabrics made it almost like she was there with them.

"So glad it happened this way. She's here – but she's not. I don't think I could be with you like this if she were here, because tonight should be just between us. But, at the same time, it would've felt…_wrong_… not to have her here, you know what I mean?" He could barely make out Harry's ragged whisper, but agreed with the former Gryff whole heartedly when his soon-to-be Bonded muttered, "I won't mess it up again. She'll be with us, even more than she is right now, because we're meant to be."

Harry shifted to his side and began to kiss whatever skin he could reach. His hands languidly stroked Draco's sides and thighs before stilling. Draco barely had time to smirk at the fact that Harry nodded off in mid-caress before he, too, fell asleep.

The hands around his hips loosened, separating Draco from his memories.

Draco felt Harry tilt his head until his forehead rested on the crook of Draco's neck. Draco could feel Harry's stuttered breathing as his Bonded collected himself. Draco smirked and chuckled very quietly: _the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak_. His father had been able to provide Harry with some comfort via Malfoy family magic, more than what a well-filled ice-pack could bring-about. Soft-tissue damage – courtesy of Granger's size-five hiking boot – meant that it'd be at least another day before Harry would be recovered enough for Draco to reciprocate.

The man who stood behind him felt he had so much more to make up for in regards to Hermione Granger. Draco never contradicted Harry on that fact. Draco's crimes and trespasses against Gryffindor's Princess? She never expected anything more from him than vitriol and cruelty.

Harry, on the other hand… Harry's…_failings_…bordered on acts of betrayal.

Hermione Granger did not suffer traitors.

That was going to be one of their most significant stumbling blocks as they rebuilt their relationships with the long-truant witch. If she 'determined' that Kostas had tranquilized her because he was a rat-bastard – which she clearly hadn't – then she'd forever classify Kostas as rat-bastard. She'd once labeled him, Draco Malfoy, a 'foul, loathsome, evil, little cockroach'.

He had his work cut out for him to erase _that_ stellar designation.

Draco had no idea what category she'd assigned Harry. All he knew was that it wasn't favorable. If it were, she would've made contact long ago.

"Look," Harry whispered.

Below, where three once stood, there were only two: Dakova and Krum. Each wizard was watching the witch who was walking away from them and the bandy-legged familiar that trotted along beside her.

"What was that about?" Draco wondered. "Why aren't they following her?"

The slightest of smiles tickled the side of his neck. "She told them not to."

"How do you know?"

"She's got her arms wrapped around her middle and her head is down; she doesn't want to make eye contact with anyone nor does she want anyone to approach her. She does that when she wants to be alone and needs to think."

There was something in Harry's tone that appealed to Draco's long-seated Slytherin. "But that's not the case?"

"Oh – that's the case alright." Harry skimmed his hands up the outside of Draco's arms. "Except that she'll be completely approachable in about an hour."

Draco could feel his Bonded straighten his posture and gather his courage. A brief feather-light kiss landed on the nape of his neck. Fingers deft enough to catch a Snitch pressed into his sides before he was released altogether. It was a strain to hear three mumbled words breathed against the skin just behind his ear, "Don't wait up."

Draco nodded. He understood. Last night, nay, five hours ago, Draco had made his first move at changing Granger's perception. It was now Harry's turn.

"I'll deal with Dakova and Krum. You go get our witch, Potter."

:

:

In Slytherin, you didn't waste your time looking for someone. You made them come to you.

Draco let it be known to the staff at Derwent's that he could be found in the Solarium, 'should anyone need him'.

Philanthropy had its privileges.

He called for a casual spread of tea, Turkish coffee, sparkling water, fresh fruit, and small croissants to be laid out on the sideboard.

For himself, he plucked a plump strawberry from the bowl, sliced it into a tall narrow glass, and topped it with water.

He'd only taken a couple of sips when Kostadin Dakova arrived.

The invitation he'd extended to the Serb to join him had been done with a wave of a hand at the nearest empty seat at his table. The camaraderie that had been established the night before had clearly been challenged by Krum's arrival and whatever Krum, Granger, and Dakova had discussed underneath that willow tree.

Draco decided that a 'more flies with honey' approach would yield better results than more aggressive posturing.

He assessed the older man and decided to address the Serb's lingering guilt before he worked on finding out what was going on with his witch.

"You didn't have a choice, Kostas." Draco stated his take on what had happened the previous night. "If you hadn't subdued her, she would've been hurt worse, which would've set off another round of bad reactions – from all of us."

Kostas leaned forward. He palmed the armrests of his metal chair as if he were revving the engine of a motorbike before gripping it tightly. His knuckles whitened as he squeezed the molded iron. "_Da_, I knvow. Doesn't help, though. Jamie… She's more than just client. She's…"

Granger was _always_ more than what people gave her credit for being.

The woman wasn't a paragon of any one – or any – given virtue. She was brave, but knew enough to retreat when necessary. Harry's story about their escape from Bagshot's hovel was a perfect example. She was book smart and could apply what she knew of human psychology to those around her but couldn't do the same to herself – like Weaselbee acting on his jealousy towards those who are his betters and her own inclination towards bossiness when her temper flares. She was a stickler for rules, but only as long as those rules didn't jeopardize something she perceived to be important or vital. Case in point: making Harry the front man for a Defense Club she planned when her DADA OWL was jeopardized by Umbridge's inadequacies.

She had a forgiving nature, but had no problem exacting retribution – she knew that Rita Skeeter was a word-twisting headline-whore, but she still held the Prophet's number-one gossip-monger in a glass jar, against the woman's will, for weeks on end. And Dumbledore… Draco had yet to figure out why Granger's name landed on the man's 'acceptable losses' roster, other than the fact that whatever had happened between the Princess and the Headmaster had everything to do with those she cared about and, unlike aforementioned Headmaster, not personal gain.

That was one of the most enigmatic aspects of Granger's personality. She had amazing self-esteem; she never stopped defending her beliefs or apologized for her behavior – like kidnapping Skeeter or marking that Edgecombe chit. But, she always put the well-being of whom she deemed more important than herself ahead of her own. As a Malfoy and a Slytherin, that was something that Draco just couldn't comprehend. But, five years ago, Draco would've said something along the lines of Granger collecting admirers like Umbridge collected kitten-themed tea plates. Now a-days he would've still thought that, but he wouldn't actually 'say' it – out loud.

"Jamie?" Draco's eyebrow arched, harking back to Kostas referring to Hermione by her alias.

"_Da_ – Jamie. That's vhat she called herself. Jamie Drayton." Kostas' lips twisted with chagrin. "Three years is long time… I keep forgetting to call her by her true name."

Jamie Drayton…. Jamie Drayton… Draco turned those two names over in his mind. Several moments later, Draco finally realized why those two names were much less random than previously thought.

Draco's thoughts wandered to the faint wisps of different emotions he was detecting emanating from his Veela. Being able to see Granger in person, rather than in memories and pictures, hadn't necessarily made him or his Veela feel 'better', but it did give both him and his Veela a sense of hope and responsibility. Hope – that that the pronouncement Severus had made five years ago could actually come to pass. Responsibility – to do his best not to snuff out the opportunity that Pucey's overzealous spell-casting had procured. Harry hadn't been wrong or melodramatic when he stated that if Granger hadn't wanted to be found, then they wouldn't find her. Given what he'd determined by her alias-of-choice, she was more connected, albeit subconsciously rather than deliberately, to he and Harry than even she recognized.

"At least now she knows vho vrites my checks." A wry, weak, smile revealed the tips of Dakova's front teeth.

"Krum's the one who's been paying you?"

"_Da_. Three years ago he ask me. Only now, I know vhy."

"And?" Draco barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He shouldn't have to ask the man to expound when there was such a relevant back-story, but apparently he did. _No wonder Uncle Severus didn't respond well when someone withheld information that was obviously necessary to a conversation_.

"Brussels, three years ago. At the time, my client vas German industrialist vho vas scouting for vedding venue; our rooms vere at same hotel as Amnesty International fundraiser. Viktor vas in same city for Quidditch, interviewing for new Chaser. Ve met on sidevalk, me and Viktor and rest of team. Somevone on team wasn't Dampened. His magic triggered car-bomb. Limousine blew up. So much noise, so much light..." Kostas clearly didn't like what happened after the initial explosion. "So many people… Fancy dresses all over pavement like knocked-over fruit cart." He breathed deeply, an attempt at settling his heightened emotions in the wake of such memories. "Jamie vas hurt. Not badly. All I saw vas pretty voman in long purple gown push herself upright and start to check on others."

That sounded like something Granger would do, Draco mused.

"But, Viktor, he must've seen her. I make sure Viktor's okay, hear police en route, and leave to check on client. Five days later, hotel gives me thick envelope." Kostas ceased to strangle the sides of his chair so that he could mimic with his thumb and forefinger just how thick the envelope was – a good four inches. "I recognize Viktor's handvriting on front of packet. Inside vas retainer for new client, photo of new client – student named Jamie Drayton – a letter asking me to drop the German industrialist and take on Jamie, a brief dossier on Jamie, thicker dossier on Amnesty International, and newspaper article about bombing. Darfur insurgents claimed responsibility for bombing and issued statement that read 'next time' – that's all that was vritten; two vords typed underneath pages of manifesto."

Kostas scowled at the cowardice of such an act. Draco mentally assigned the same terrorist group the same fate as Dolohov and Scabior. The parallels between the Magical and Muggle worlds lengthened.

"Car bomb detonated early so fewer people vere hurt. Jamie's name vas listed as vone of many intended targets. Viktor never said he knew her, only ask vat I protect her and make her my client. Viktor is best friend. Of course I do this." Kostas shook his head, as if he'd do anything but what his friend had asked of him. "Takes me vone month to make transition, but vas vorth the vait. Jamie's – she is amazing. She finished University and vorked for Amnesty during school breaks. Ve go all over vorld, do so much."

Kostas' expression changed from nostalgic, to admiration, to accusation as he leveled his gaze squarely on Draco. "Never have I met a more angry person. She hides vell, but alvays she's angry. Study hard, vork hard – never stop. Vith her, everything is _personal_. That, that is your fault, yours and Potter's – _da_?"

It would be so easy for Draco's Veela to take the blame that Kostas heaped at their feet; take the blame, take responsibility, and solidify Kostas as an ally – that would be easy… but it wouldn't be the truth.

For all their sakes, Draco shook his head. "No. She's angry at the world, at the state of Wizarding society, angry at herself. Potter disappointed her and I've never said one kind word to her – not directly, anyway." He shifted in his seat, and masked his shame with cool analysis. "She ran away; something that is against her nature but something she did anyway. I'm not saying she wasn't justified, or that there was anything else any of us could have done differently at that point in time." Draco knew he was being generous, specifically in regards to how Harry treated Hermione at the time, but in all fairness there were a lot of mitigating circumstances, on all their parts. "But, she ran away. And, she's yet to forgive herself for doing so."

Kostas hung his head, the edges of his dark brown hair lifted in the breeze that flowed through the open windows that lined the slanted roof of the Solarium. His chin rose, and tilted so that Draco could see the man's eyes. Kostas released a deep breath Draco never heard him draw. "Jamie's…. she's quivk to forgive, vonce she determines vhy vone did what vone did. She does not forget."

"We're both facing that same dilemma, Kostas," Draco quietly intoned.

"No. Ve're not." Kostas shook his head. "She does not need to forgive me because there is nothing to forgive. My job is to protect her. I did that. She needed to understand that, in that moment, vhen I tranq'ed her, I vas doing my job. She knows this; understands the difference."

Draco shouldn't've been impressed, but he was. Dakova clearly regretted how his actions put a strain on his relationship with Granger, but not what he actually did.

"You, though, cannot say same."

Draco had to agree. "No, I can't."

"But now you have opportunity."

That was something Draco didn't expect to hear. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I cannot protect her anymore."

Draco's Veela and Draco were is complete agreement that Dakova shouldn't be the one to protect Granger. That was now their job – his and Potter's. Lupin, Severus and Father would contribute, but the responsibility was theirs, as it should've always been, to safe-guard every aspect of Granger's life.

"Jamie – she vorks so hard. So committed to her vork. She make many enemies. Most dangerous is General Vheaton."

Draco had no idea who the man that Kostas identified was, but he would know everything about the man by the end of the week. Lupin and Severus, once they were made aware of the situation, would see to it personally.

"Vheaton is more than just war-lord for small African city-state. He does many evil things, with many evil people, all over the vorld. This is vho your Nimrod and Nimrod's friends rescued us from yesterday. Vheaton vill have declared Jamie a 'Priority'. Vheaton's Priorities do not live long and suffer horribly, Draco Malfoy."

Draco started to speak but was cut off by Dakova.

"Vheaton does not just pursue a Priority. He goes after _everyone_ associated vith that Priority. Hence vhy Vheaton doesn't designate just anyone as a Priority – everything about a Priority is important and time-sensitive. Vheaton has resources, money; he's smart. The most dangerous aspect of this tvo-legged beast? He's _decisive_ and _relentless_. To this man, international borders are blessing and not hindrance because that means he has _more_ access to _more_ information rather than stopped by principle of geography and language barriers."

Draco forced himself not to haul the man out of his chair and beat him for allowing Granger to become one of this monster's 'Priorities'.

"Our biggest advantage is Hermione's alias. _Jamie_ is most closely connected to her Stanford life, Amnesty International, and Alec Digges. Stanford people are on their own. Among those at Amnesty International, many already have security teams; Alec Digges is most vulnerable. General Vheaton cannot discover Jamie Drayton vas, _is_, Hermione Granger. Too many people connected to Hermione Granger to adequately protect let alone contact so that they can make their own security arrangements. This is vhy our biggest secret is that Jamie Drayton is Hermione Granger."

Draco's mind was already crafting a web of connections between all those who knew – and know of – Hermione Granger. The list was extensive.

"I have close family; documents at Amnesty International connect me with Alec Digges. There are Muggle photos of me and Viktor. Viktor and I, between the two of us, vill arrange to protect Alec, my family, and Jamie's family. Viktor and I cannot do that from here."

The more Dakova explained the situation the more Draco wanted to uproot everyone in their consortium and relocate all of them to the Magical Maldives. He stifled a curse. They couldn't leave. Umbridge's preliminary hearing for her appeal was three weeks away. None of them could go anywhere – let alone be basking in tropical sunshine by this time tomorrow.

Dakova continued speaking, unaware of Draco's ruminations. "Ve are needed elsevhere. This is vhy it'll fall to you and Potter and rest of your people to protect _her_."

"That's what you all told her this afternoon, wasn't it?" The news about Wheaton made the fact that he and Harry spied on Kostas, Krum and Granger trivial.

Dakova nodded at Draco's correct guess. "_Da_. She didn't like it, but she accepted it. Jamie…she's good about things like that. You give her good reason, and she'll accept vhat you tell her."

Any and all emotion vacated the Serb's countenance. A coolly detached professional now sat in front of Draco.

"Can you kill to protect her? Because if you cannot do this, then you vill die."

"I live with that fact every day, Dakova."

"You misunderstand me." He leaned further back in the chair and rested his hands in his lap as if he were stating the most common fact known to man or wizard. "If Hermione dies, then you die. Not because of your Veela nature or due to your guilt. There'll be nothing any of you could do to call-off Viktor. If Vheaton kills Jamie, then Viktor _vill_ kill you and Potter and anyone else who failed to protect her."

He drove his point home by repeating himself. "If Vheaton gets Jamie, can you kill Jamie? Because by killing her, should Vheaton capture her, would be _only_ vay to protect her. Vhat that man vould do to her othervise…"

Draco didn't need details. What Dakova didn't say painted a more thorough picture than a thousand eye-witness reports.

"Killing her vould be only recourse. Compared to vhat Vheaton does to his Priorities? If Jamie dies, Hermione dies. If Hermione dies, there is no protection for you from the vengeance Viktor - vith me as ally – vould seek in her name. You and yours vould be Snitch Viktor vould crush in his hand. The difference between mercy killing and if Vheaton kills her? How slowly Viktor curls his fingers around your throats."

Draco wasn't like Granger or Potter; self-preservation was as much a part of him as was his Malfoy inheritance, but he wasn't a coward either. However, he'd witnessed first-hand what would become of a Veela should that Veela be forced into a no-win situation. His mother's…current state…was all the proof he needed to make sure that what had happened to Narcissa Black Malfoy never happened to him or to Potter.

No one was going to touch Potter but him and Granger. And the only one who would ever touch Granger was going to be him and Potter. He reveled in the knowledge that the only two people who'd ever touch him would be Potter and Granger. Just the idea of the three of them… He pushed that train of thought aside. Now was neither the time nor the place to ponder such thoughts.

"To use your Quidditch metaphor." Draco wasn't without his own ultimatum. "Should anything happen to us, you'll have to deal with an equally ruthless team of Chasers: Lupin, Snape and Lucius Malfoy. Bear that in mind."

Dakova shugged, the epitome of nonchalance. "Those vizards matter not. Viktor knows Old Magic: Persephone's Table, Blood Rights. He'll not hesitate to invoke all demons in Hell for his Valkyrie. I vill make sure of it."

There was nothing he could say about that; for the moment diplomacy would have to be the better side of cause-and-effect. To say anything more would only reduce their conversation to more promises of retribution for something which neither he nor Potter would ever allow to happen.

"Duly noted."

Draco tipped more water into his glass and drank for a moment. Dakova filled a small cup with Turkish coffee and sipped the thick, bitter brew.

He sat his glass on a coaster and broke their shared silence. It was time to tell Harry about this General Wheaton. "Jumpy!"

An elf in Malfoy livery materialized. He acknowledged Dakova and then turned his attention to the one who'd summoned him, "Yes, Master Draco?"

"Tell Master Harry that he is needed in the Solarium immediately."

The elf trembled where he stood. His knees knocked and he tugged viciously on his ears until they were flush against his oblong head.

"Jumpy – what is it?"

The fearful elf only managed the most garbled of stammers.

Draco forced himself to be patient with the elf. The elf had come to him – well, him and Harry – from a very abusive household. In times when Jumpy had to relay information he felt that his Masters wouldn't want to hear, he reverted to his learned responses of trepidation and fearfulness.

"Jumpy. You are only going to tell me the truth. I cannot – will not – punish you for telling me the truth or answering my question."

Jumpy's chin quivered and he hunched forward in a defensive crouch. But he managed to squeak out three words coherently. "He's not here."

"Where did he go?"

"He left, Master Draco. He took his witch with him."

.

* * *

Sorry about the horribly long wait for this chapter... I have no excuses, just some paltry reasons... My father died unexpectedly at the end January and two weeks before he died someone who was as close to me as a mother died even more unexpectedly; I've gone into business for myself, fended off - literally - unscrupulous 'family' members, and been working 2 full time jobs: my own business as well as for someone else.

About the chapter: Well? What did you think? I've NEVER written slash before! Did it turn out alright?

Lionel Messi: One of the ten greatest soccer/football players of all time. He was recruited to play professionally in his early teens and his career was/is absolutely brilliant. I thought he'd be just the one Hermione would liken Viktor to; Viktor was recruited to play Quidditch while his was in his early-to-mid teens and since his team squared off against the Irish in the '94 World Cup, you know he had to be an exceptional player! Hmmmm... wonder where Rowling's inspiration for Krum came from? Can anyone say 'Messi'?


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